


NINE

by iamafishstik



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Ancient Egyptian Deities, Ancient Egyptian Literature & Mythology, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Violence, Cat Burglars, Cat Puns, Character Death, Childhood Friends, Childhood Trauma, Dubious Morality, Dysfunctional Family, Egyptian Mafia, Female Anti-Hero, Friends to Lovers, Ginger Tom, Homelessness, Magic, Morally Ambiguous Character, Murder, Mythical Beings & Creatures, New York City, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Parent Stephen Strange, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Post-Doctor Strange (2016), Post-Spider-Man: Homecoming, Team as Family, Theft, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Variations on Ancient Egyptian Religion, Vigilantism, underbelly of New York
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:27:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 40,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24889129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamafishstik/pseuds/iamafishstik
Summary: Lucky.That's what people called her.Lucky; as if her world ending thrice was a gift.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Original Female Character(s), Stephen Strange & Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 74





	1. nine: a beginning

_A cat has nine lives._

_For three he plays,_

_For three he strays,_

_And for the last three he stays._

— Old English proverb


	2. Prologue: Baby Steps

“ _Pete! Hey! Peter_!”

Peter Parker, twelve-years-old, just hours away from starting sixth-grade, just a year away from being a _teenager_ , couldn’t help but sigh at the high voice calling his name.

“Peter, wait _up_!” the sound of small feet slapping the pavement, too close to pretend he hadn’t heard, made him turn impatiently.

His neighbour, the most annoying person he thought he’d ever meet, bounced towards him with a great, big, beaming smile across her face. Alice Tybalt-Nefertari was the youngest of the Tybalt-Nefertari horde, the large family that lived in the house next door. Unfortunately for Peter, his Aunt and Alice’s mother were friends. It meant he could never escape Alice and her non-stop questions and unblinking stares.

“What do you want, Alice?” he asked impatiently, looking down his nose and over his glasses at her. It made her a little blurry, but it didn’t lessen her grin. Alice jumped in place, her pink Barbie backpack jostling with her movement. The backpack was _way_ too big for her, but Peter and _everyone_ in the neighbourhood had heard her begging for it. _Spoilt._ He thought, a little meanly.

“Your Uncle says you haf’ to walk me to school.” She said, proudly.

Peter felt his face drop. “What? No way – it’s my first day of middle school, it’ll make me late walking you to baby _day care._ ”

Alice scowled, and she stomped her foot angrily, “I’m in _first grade!_ I’m not a baby!” her hands tightened on her bag straps.

“You’re five. You’re a baby.” He told her, pushing his glasses up from where they’d slipped down his nose a little.

“I’m _SIX!_ ” she screamed, face screwing up and eyes growing worryingly wet. Peter gulped, and hurried towards her as she began to suck in loud, hiccupping breaths.

“I’m sorry! Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry! C’mon, it was just a joke, Ally!” he took her by her shoulders gently, and crouching so that he was eye level with her. “I’ll walk you to school, _and_ I’ll buy you candy from Delmar’s.”

Alice sniffled. “And a soda?” she said, voice wobbly. Peter nodded, shooting a nervous look around the still quiet street, hoping no one was going to come out and scold him for making a kid cry. Alice threw her arms around his neck, and squeezed him tightly. “You’re the best, Pete!” she said brightly, ignoring the choking noise he let out as she flattened his windpipe. Thankfully she let him go, face suspiciously devoid of tears, and bounced around him as he coughed and straightened.

Peter adjusted his own backpack, shoulders already aching from all the textbooks he’d crammed in. “How come your brothers or sisters wouldn’t walk you?” he asked as they headed towards school. Alice was the youngest of seven siblings, three of which were in college, but the high school and middle school that her other two brothers and twin sisters attended were right nearby Alice’s school.

Alice blinked up at him, eyes a little limpid, and took his hand. “Because I wanted _you_ to walk me to school, Peter.” She said, swinging their hands together. He groaned quietly, resisting the urge to tug his hand out of her sticky grip. “Peter, why do people tell me to eat broccoli?”

_Alice and her questions_. Peter didn’t know any other little girl or boy who asked as many questions as Alice did. Mr Santino from two doors down called her Cat, because ‘ _curiosity killed the cat,’_ which had made Mrs. Tybalt-Nefertari laugh, and Aunt May frown. Peter privately thought it was a fitting nickname. “Because broccoli is good for you.” He supplied absently, looking both ways across the street before he began to cross.

Alice half-jogged after him. Though Peter wasn’t particularly tall for his age – Uncle Ben said that he hadn’t hit his growth spurt yet – Alice was a lot shorter than she should be too. Her oldest brother, Michael, once said it was because all her siblings had gotten the height her mom had to give. Alice had cried for three hours, and May had made him let her sleep-over in his bed. She had stolen all his blankets and kicked in her sleep.

“But broccoli is gross. What makes it so _good_?” she asked, skipping a little as she hopped the gutter. Peter sighed as his arm was jerked a little painfully.

“Vitamins.” He said vaguely. “And you can ask someone else about vitamins. Ask your science teacher.”

Alice’s face fell for a moment, before lighting up again with unnerving speed. “You’re good at science, you could be my science teacher. Mommy says you’re so good you’re gonna save the world someday.”

Peter couldn’t help but puff out his chest a little. “Maybe she’s right.” He said, and gave her a superior look. “Remember when I helped Iron Man at the expo?”

Alice’s eyes widened and she nodded. “You’re so cool, Peter. You’re a real superhero.”

Peter ducked his head, and smiled slightly, adjusting his grip on her hand. “I don’t know about that…”

Alice looked up at him, curly hair escaping the clutches of her scrunchie, gap-toothed smile on full display, bright green eyes trusting and adoring.

“Well, you’re _my_ superhero.”


	3. Chapter 1: The End

Alice loved her mom. Alice loved her dad too. Alice loved her big brothers and sisters, even though sometimes they were mean. Alice loved her family best when they were all together, when their riot of energies came together under one roof. These days, with some of her siblings at college, it was harder to be together as much, but her dad had made a family rule; when it was Christmas, everyone had to be home. Thanksgiving didn’t matter so much. Her dad wasn’t born in America, and so the tradition didn’t really matter to him, and her mom had taught her from the moment she was old enough to understand what a holiday was, that Thanksgiving was really just a celebration of _killing people_.

Murder, her mom had called it, the murder of Indigenous Americans, and under no circumstances would they celebrate such a thing. Alice agreed, even if her teacher hadn’t. Alice could still remember the letter she got sent home with after she asked her history teacher one too many questions about what really happened back then, what with the violent colonization that occurred, and the displacement of people and whole generations of families. Alice could also remember her mom throwing the letter away, and her dad telling her he was proud of her.

Christmas, however, was a different story. Her mom had put her foot down; if they celebrated Sham El-Nessim, the Egyptian Spring Holiday from where her dad was from – and where she and her siblings were from too; her dad had always said to be proud of their culture – then her mom wanted to celebrate an All-American Christmas.

Her eldest brother, Michael and her two eldest sisters Gabby and Thalia were all home from college, and Thomas, Harry, Ruby and Hannah had their holidays start a few days ago, and so the house was comfortably full again. Well, as comfortable as it could be with everyone sharing rooms again.

Alice liked sharing a room with Ruby and Hannah. Even though they talked more to each other than to her, they always let her borrow their things, and sometimes they’d dress her up. She loved it when they did, liked the smell of their blush on her cheeks, and the feeling of their too-big shoes on her feet. Once, Gabby had let her borrow a pair of heels, and she had clomped around the house like a proud horse.

“Ally-Cat! Where are _youu_?”

Alice froze under the Christmas tree at her mom’s sing-song call. Quickly, she wriggled out from her spot, only to back up into a pair of legs. “Mom! She’s looking at presents again!” Alice rolled over onto her back to meet Harry’s gloating eyes, and scowled, reaching out to tug at his leg hair. “Ow! Alice!”

“He’s lying!” she yelled, just as loudly, jumping to her feet and hurrying out of the room. “He’s always lyi- _oof!”_ she resounded soundly off her father’s chest, but before she could properly tumble over, he caught her and hoisted her up over his shoulder with a booming laugh.

Mahmoud Nefertari was a giant man, well over six-feet tall, and seemed to be as wide as mountain range. He had a face like thunder, with thick wiry brows set low over his dark eyes, and yet he seemed to smile more than he frowned. Alice had gotten her head of unruly curls from her father, and his deep olive skin, and she was secretly hoping she would get his height too. Unfortunately, it seemed that she was bound to inherit more than her mother’s green eyes and nose; Felicity Tybalt was a tiny sprite of a thing next to her husband.

Her dad ignored her faint protests as he marched for the kitchen, ruffling Thomas’ hair as he passed her brother with his head buried in his DS. Felicity, Gabby and Thalia were all in the kitchen, slaving over the stove. Well, Felicity and Thalia were slaving away – Gabby was standing to the side and chopping vegetables _very_ carefully, on account of being banned from using the stove, oven and microwave since she was ten, due to an unfortunate incident involving the fire department and a single pizza roll.

Mahmoud set her down on the bench, and fixed her with a serious look. “Were you under the tree, Akilah?”

Alice was caught under his gaze. She’d never been able to lie to her dad. “Umm. Maybe.”

“ _See_!” Harry called from the hall, and Alice stuck her tongue out in his direction.

“What did we say about opening the presents?” Felicity chimed in, turning to point her cranberry sauce covered spoon at Alice.

“I didn’t open them! I never open them! I’m just good at guessing.” Alice said defensively. It was true. She didn’t _open_ them – she just shook them up, gave them a sniff, poked at the shape – it wasn’t her fault she was curious, and it wasn’t her fault her family were so obvious about presents. Her mom raised a pale brow, and Alice pouted. “I swear!” she whined, ready to kick into gear for a full tantrum .

It was her dad who broke up the moment with a loud chuckle. “You are too nosy for your own good, Alice. Remember,”

“ _Curiosity killed the cat!”_ Everyone chorused at once, and Alice grinned in spite of herself.

“Ally-Cat, go get your sisters and Michael, would you? Dinner’s nearly ready.” Felicity asked, smoothly swapping places with Thalia so she could peer into the oven at the roasting turkey.

“Sure!” Alice said, sliding off the bench as her dad headed around the kitchen island to press a kiss to her mom’s cheek. “Bags not setting the table!” she called over her shoulder, deliberately jostling Thomas as she passed him.

He looked up, startled. “Bags not!” he said automatically, giving her a thumbs up as she raced up the stairs. She headed for her and Ruby and Hannah’s room first, closest to the stairs. The door they’d painted a each third of still looked as bright as the day they had first painted it, and she ran her hand over the letters of their names for a moment before she pushed open the door.

Her sisters were both on the bottom bunk of the bunk bed they shared, opposite her single bed next to the window, feet entwined. They were laughing at something on Hannah’s phone, but when she opened the door, they turned. “Dinner’s ready.” Alice informed them, trying to sneak a peak at what they were watching. “What’re you watching?” the twins exchanged a look before Ruby beckoned her over.

“Come see, it’s so funny.” Ruby said, beginning to laugh again as Alice approached. Alice watched the blue shark dance next to Katy Perry with a bemused smile. She didn’t _really_ get what was funny, but it set Hannah and Ruby off again, and she couldn’t help but laugh with them.

She headed for the boy’s room next. Michael hadn’t been thrilled about being forced to share a room with the other two again, but Alice knew he wasn’t planning on being at home too long. He could suck it up. She knocked this time, and waited until she heard him say to come in. He always yelled at her if she came in without knocking. He was sitting on the window ledge, his laptop propped up on his knees, typing away furiously. “Hey, Ally.” He said absently, sparing her a momentary look. “C’mere for a second, and tell me if this makes sense.” She did as he said, crossing the room and stepping over the blow up mattress on the floor and crawling up onto the window ledge with him. Snow was beginning to gather on the eaves of the roof, and pile up on the window frame. Her sisters hated the winter, as did her dad, but her mom and her brothers and Peter always went sledding when the snow got thick enough. She sat up a little taller, trying to judge the snow depth. Maybe Peter would want to sled after dinner... She’d like to see him on Christmas anyway, and give him the present she got him.

She hadn’t seen much of Peter lately. A few weeks ago, she heard that he got sick after a field trip, and when she tried to visit him, May had told her to go home and that he didn’t want to see her. Then, when she’d tried to walk to school with him, he had ignored her and walked right by her. He’d looked _different_ too. He hadn’t had his glasses and he’d gotten taller. When she asked her mom about it, she’d laughed and said Peter was going through puberty – whatever that was. Still. She missed him.

“…Did that make sense?” Michael asked her, and Alice realised she hadn’t been listening, too preoccupied with her thoughts about Peter.

She blinked, and gave her brother a nervous look. “Um. No, sorry. I’m only nine.” She offered as an apology.

“Damn.” Michael said, slamming his laptop shut aggressively. “It’s supposed to be _accessible._ I’m _never_ gonna get my degree!” he moaned, and buried his face in his hands. Tentatively, Alice wrapped her arms around him as best as she could.

“It’s okay, Mike, one day you’ll graduate.” She said reassuringly, but it just made him whimper slightly, and she winced. Movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention, and she looked back down at the street. A big black car had pulled up across the road. It was unfamiliar, and the windows were dark enough that she couldn’t see who was driving. Maybe Mrs. Jones’ son had come home for Christmas. Alice knew the elderly woman missed him so much, but was too afraid to tell him. She was lucky to have her family with her. Maybe she should ask her mom if they could visit Mrs. Jones on Christmas Day. “Come eat some turkey.” She said, patting her brother on the back, turning her attention back to her bereaved brother.

“I’ll drown my sorrows in gravy.” He declared, and hopped down from the window, reaching out to help her down. “Let’s do it.” he said, managing to smile. Alice wound her fingers around the first three digits of his hand. Her eldest brother was already big and tall like their father, but unlike her other brothers, he seemed almost unaware of his size, clumsy with his strength.

Her father had ended up setting the table, and on insistence from the twins, had even set up the placards Hannah and Ruby had once painstakingly crafted, each of their names in curling script. Alice’s card had a small cat sticker on it, and she climbed into her seat between Harry and Thalia with a huge grin. The food was delicious. It always was. Her mother had apparently always had an affinity for spices, and her love of flavourful food had only grown since her father had introduced her to the wonderful world of African flavour. Alice was unsurprised to smell that the turkey had been rubbed with a Baharat mix, and in place of dinner rolls were baladi with little dishes of oil and dukkah.

They all ate until they were full, and then when desert arrived, they ate some more. Alice had migrated to her mother’s lap, and was eating from the dish of raspberries on the table with her fingers. At this point, warm and stuffed with food and conversation, they were all sluggish. Thalia and Michael were arguing lightly about something to do with the college they both attended, whilst Gabby and Thomas played some kind of multiplayer game on his iPad. The twins were trying to convince Harry to pierce his nose, whilst her dad and her mom exchanged loving looks over the table, with the kind of quiet pride that seemed to come with parenthood.

Alice ducked her head to hide her yawn. She wasn’t ready to go to bed yet, she didn’t want to miss any of Christmas Eve, didn’t want to miss her family together. Unfortunately, her yawn was caught by her father.

“Is it time for your bed, Akilah?” He asked, voice warm. Alice was the name on her birth certificate, her father’s epithet her middle-name, but Alice knew it was _also_ her name, like how her dad sometimes introduced himself as Matthew rather than Mahmoud. When she used to get letters from her grandparents in Egypt, they never called her Alice. Only Akilah. They died before she was old enough to go meet them, but sometimes her dad would pull out the letters from them, and some pictures of him as a boy younger than her, and would let her hold the worn documents. The paper the letters were on always smelt faintly of cardamom, and Alice would imagine that her grandparents smelt like the sweet, dark spice.

Alice shook her head violently, even as she shovelled a few more berries in her mouth. She knew resistance was futile. “I’m awake!” She gargled through her mouthful.

“Ew!” Gabby pretended to gag. “Close your mouth, Alice.”

Alice stuck her tongue out at her sister, a bit of mashed up berry on the tip of it, just to watch her shriek in indignation. Her mother let out a noise somewhere between a sigh and a chuckle, and tightened her arms around Alice’s middle. “Definitely bedtime. Say goodnight!” She stood, as the table obediently stopped their conversations to wish Alice a goodnight.

“Why don’t Hannah and Ruby have to go to bed?” Alice ignored her siblings as her mother carried her from the room.

“Because they’re older. When you’re older, then you can stay up too.” Felicity explained absently, shifting Alice in her thin arms so that Alice was facing her. Alice put her hands on her mother’s shoulders and leant in close so that their noses were touching. Felicity smiled.

“But they’ll always be older, so I’ll always be going to bed first.” Alice bemoaned. She was getting too big for her mom to carry her anymore; Alice could see the faint strain in her mother’s eyes as Felicity took her up the stairs.

Felicity hummed, “Well, that’s true for now, but one day you won’t have a bedtime.” Alice blinked, thrown by this new information. Felicity gasped with her, widening her eyes in a mirror of Alice. “Wow, right? How cool is that?”

“When?” Alice demanded suddenly, picturing her little pink calendar on her desk. Surely not more than a few weeks, because the year was almost over.

Felicity laughed. “When you’re old enough.” She answered mysteriously, setting Alice down at the bathroom. She watched and waited as Alice brushed her teeth, raising a brow as Alice tried to skip flossing. When she was dressed in her pyjamas, and admittedly feeling the effects of the late hour, Felicity marched her to her bedroom. Alice walked in first, her mom shadowing her close enough to make her laugh, and bolt for the bed. Felicity let out a small growl and darted for her, as Alice hurried to get under the sheets, burying her head under her duvet.

“Mom!” She shrieked, wiggling away from the hands seeking her ticklish sides. “Dad! Daddy! Help!” From downstairs she could hear her father laugh, and his heavy feet on the stairs as he came at her call.

“What’s this?” His loud voice was suddenly in the room, and Alice could picture him in the doorway, filling the frame with a mock look of outrage. “Felicity? Are you trying to eat our daughter?”

Her mom laughed delightedly, and for a moment there was silence, and Alice could picture them embracing in their careful way, pressing a light kiss to each other's lips before refocussing. “She’s just so sweet, I couldn’t help myself…” Felicity said, a smile to her voice.

Her bed creaked and dipped, and Alice untangled herself, sticking her head from her cocoon to eye her father who had settled down. He caught her gaze and winked, reaching for her mom, who went willingly into his loose hold. “Don’t worry, I’ll protect you.”

Alice smiled slightly. “All night?” She asked, the long-practiced bedtime routine making her eyes heavy against her will.

“I will protect you all night, like the moon.” Her father said softly, standing to smooth her hair off her brow and press a kiss between her eyes.

Her mother stooped next, kissing both her cheeks and pinching them lightly enough to make her laugh sleepily. “And then, when it is morning, I will protect you all day, like the sun.” Her mother hummed quietly as she stood and switched off the light. Alice had heard the song she sung every night for as long as she could remember, but she could never… quite… remember… it…

* * *

Alice awoke with a start.

She couldn’t be sure what roused her, only that whatever it was had left a creeping, crawling feeling down her spine.

The house was quiet and still, her sisters breathing slow and even in their bunks. It was surprisingly bright outside, the snow clouds cleared away to reveal the moon, the moonlight reflecting off the white blanketing cover of snow that had fallen whilst she slept. Alice sat up.

_Had Santa come yet?_

She had no idea what time it was; it was the stagnant time of night that could be moments from morning or minutes from twilight. The moon had rendered another kind of twilight, a gleaming frosty one, and Alice took another second to sweep the rooftops of the surrounding houses for any sleigh marks or hoofprints.

None to be seen. Alice wondered what Santa would be bringing her. If she could just finish taking a _little_ peek under the tree, maybe she’d have a better idea. Santa never seemed to bring her duplicates of anything, like he knew what her family was going to get her in advance. Mind made up, Alice slipped out of her bed, and tiptoed her way down the stairs, taking pains to avoid the creaky steps, and made her way into the living room. The tree, lit from behind by the silvery light of the moon, looked briefly sinister, the branches shadowy and spiky, a dark shape. Alice dropped to her hands and knees, and crawled forwards until she had to lie on her belly and scoot forwards until she was under the tree, surrounded by presents and hidden by the dense brush.

The scent of pine was so strong Alice was almost tempted to plug her nose. In the dark, with scent as her only viable sense, it seemed almost overwhelming. It didn’t take her long to find her pile. The wrapping paper was different for everyone, an easy way to differentiate between the generally large and messy pile. She ran her fingers over the slightly raised stripes on the paper, memorising the feel of the red-and-white candy-striped paper.

She was about a quarter of the way through her pile; as she had predicted, new markers, new skirts, some smaller packages she thought must be jewellery, and what smelt like the new scented erasers she’d been collecting from Claire’s – when something creaked in the hallway. Alice stilled, hands freezing on the present she’d been about to shake. If she got caught under the tree and out of bed, she’d be in _huge_ trouble.

So she kept quiet, and whoever was in the hallway moved again, and it was quiet again. Then, the stairs creaked, and Alice frowned. Their family had been in this house for so long, that every quirk was ingrained, and it was _habit_ , for _all_ of them, to avoid the creaky stairs, especially at night because it was just courtesy. Maybe it was Michael or Thalia, or even Gabby – forgetting about the stairs. Alice went back to rattling the present.

Then, upstairs, a bang sounded loud enough to make her flinch. And then the screaming began.

Doors and footsteps, furniture and floorboards, everything was banging and catching – but still barely audible over the multitude of human panic. Alice realised with a sudden horror, that it wasn’t just the voices of her family she could hear, that the loud yelling she couldn’t understand were voices she didn’t recognise.

And then the clamour got closer and closer, and sudden stomping into the living room made her curl up reflexively as the lights were switched on. Alice’s eyes widened at the pair of heavy boots that walked deliberately towards her. Nameless panic made her still, breath frozen in her lungs, heart thumping so loudly it overwhelmed her. Closer and closer they came, until they were right in front of her – and then past her.

The curtains were swiftly drawn across the window, and then the boots were stomping over to her couch, and whoever was attached to the boots sat down, and picked up a cookie from the plate she had left out for Santa. Alice watched the crumbs fall onto her mom’s perfect white carpet with a kind of horrified dissonance. The clamour had made it to the living room, and Alex watched her family being led in by more booted feet. Her family all had bare feet, and when her father took a step at a mutter from one of the boots, Alice could see a spot of blood left in his wake.

“On your knees.” The booted man sitting on her couch sounded bored. His voice was rough, heavily accented. It was a familiar accent; the one her dad had, and for a wild moment Alice imagined it was an old family friend.

Until her sisters began to wail again as more of the boots shoved them to their knees. Alice couldn’t even comprehend how many strangers there were, her head was filled with the pained noises of her family and the colour of that spot of blood on the carpet.

“What do you want?” Her father’s voice had never sounded so scary, shaking with restrained fury.

The man on the couch laughed. It was an unusual laugh, high pitched and chilling, at odds with his voice. “Ah, Mahmoud, don’t play with me. You know what I want.” He leant forwards, feet planting themselves more firmly on the floor. Alice could hear Gabby start to cry quietly, blending with the twins sobbing. “I want what you took from me.”

Her mother shifted, old flannel pants with the hole in the knee moving with her. Alice followed the pattern all the way down to her toes, turning blue in the cold of the room. “We don’t have whatever it is you want. We could give you money-”

The man on the couch stood, and with a sudden, savage movement, lurched towards Felicity. Alice didn’t see what he did, but there was a loud, sharp sound, and her mother collapsed forwards, and Alice got to see her face for the first time. Her eyes were red-rimmed, fear making her pupils small like pinpricks, jewel-bright eyes seeming to swallow her pale face. Her cheek had a clear red handprint across it, and Alice felt sick.

Her mother met her eyes, and swallowed visibly. Alice twitched, ready to run for her, but with a faint shake of her head, her mom straightened again. Alice wanted to scream for her, but there had been such seriousness in her face, Alice didn’t dare.

“Touch my wife again and I’ll kill you.” Her father’s voice broke. Even Alice knew he couldn’t, and the man just laughed again.

“You have… hmm, let’s see,” The man from the couch walked a slow circle around her family, the other boots moving aside for him obediently as he did so. “Seven. Yes, seven chances to give me what I want. How lucky it is you have such a large family.”

Alice felt a sick sort of understanding dawn in her little belly, and the Christmas dinner she had enjoyed began to churn uncomfortably as she stared at the row of boots and pyjamas. “Don’t- _please_ , they’re just children- I don’t know-”

The booted man turned slightly, and with another bang that made her squeak uncontrollably and close her eyes, something thudded to the floor. Alice clapped her hands over her eyes, lids squeezed shut under her fingers. Her family was screaming again, her father letting out a low moan like something had been torn from him. Her mother was trying to get back on her feet, wailing something unintelligible.

Alice opened her eyes slightly, looking for a moment through the cracks in her fingers. _She wished she hadn’t_. Thalia’s sightless eyes were turned to her, pretty face slack, and there was red blooming around her head, and-

Alice shook, closing her eyes again.

“Another sound, and I will kill two more.” The couch man sounded bored again. “Let us begin again.” Her mother and Thomas, closest to Thalia, had tried to curl themselves around her body, hands bound behind their backs. Thomas was crying soundlessly, snot and tears running down his cheeks. Her mother looked empty, almost as empty as Thalia’s eyes- Alice looked away. The couch man had sat down again. “Where is the _aegis_?”

There was something burning her skin, over her heart, but Alice didn’t dare move to look. The word; _aegis_. It was heavy in her mind as she processed it, and Alice felt like she should know what the man was talking about.

Her father twitched visibly. “The- the what?” The man sighed, and another bang sounded. This time, no one made much of a sound, but Michael folded over slightly and let out an aborted cry. Blood splattered onto the carpet, making a wet sound. But her brother straightened again, despite the red running down his body, over his knees, onto the floor. “ _Please-_ ”

“Bast’s Aegis. Gorget. Collar. Whatever.” The couch man said flippantly. Her father stilled. “Ah… so you do know. Where is it?”

Her mother straightened, whole body tremoring as if she was a leaf in a breeze. “We don’t have it.” she breathed. Her father seemed incapable of speech. Another bang, and this time Ruby cried out. “I SWEAR! WE DON’T HAVE IT!”

“Does your wife always speak for you, Mahmoud? How American you have become.” The couch man said derisively. “I remember the man you were. Proud. Strong. You are a pathetic shadow of him. Bound by this… _family_.”

So, her father _did_ know the man.

“I am a better man for my family.” Her father sounded exhausted. “And she is telling the truth. I don’t have it. I sold it.”

“You- You _sold-”_ The man’s voice came out strangled and seething, and Alice heard him leap up and begin pacing in place. “No. No – I don’t believe- You _knew_ of it’s significance. You wouldn’t have-” He let out a frustrated screech. “Tear this place apart!” he bellowed.

Immediately, three of the men left the room, and Alice listened to them ripping through the kitchen, one of them thundering up the stairs. “I _sold_ it! when I got here, I sold it to pay for a citizenship! I gave it to an antique collector for cash!” her father cried desperately. One of the remaining men kicked out at him, and he groaned as he buckled.

It felt as though the search went for hours. Alice’s legs and forearms grew numb from her scrunched up position, feeling a cold she had never felt before. Her family had grown quiet again, but for the occasional stifled sob. Alice began to feel a distant hope. Perhaps the men would leave. They didn’t have this… _aegis_ , whatever it was. The return of the men made her heart skip an anxious beat. They would just leave, surely. They hadn’t found what they had come for, and so they would continue on.

One of the men spoke. She didn’t understand him, though her father had lectured her time and time again about keeping up with her Arabic studies, she was woefully behind. Now, she regretted every moment she had spent avoiding learning, because whatever the man said made the couch-man sigh deeply.

“It is a shame. I wish we could have met again under better circumstances.” He stood, and walked towards the door. Alice felt her stomach leap with hope.

“Tarek – we can still work things out-” Her father sounded suddenly desperate.

“Get rid of them.” The couch-man – Tarek – strode from the room. Alice had a sudden wild moment of joy. _It was over! He was gone-_

The sudden roaring thunder of all the guns going off at once drowned out her foolish thoughts, and Alice clapped her hands over her ears as her chest burned.

And then-

Silence.


	4. The Orphan

“Has she said anything yet?”

Detective Jessica Drew looked up from her stack of crime scene photos to the break room. Just visible through the slats of the lowered blinds, the only surviving victim of the shooting was staring blankly at the wall.

Jessica grimaced. “No. Poor thing. Doctors said she’s unharmed except for some self-inflicted scratches. She’s in shock.” The detective hadn’t yet been inside the scene of the homicide, but her partner had personally retrieved the girl and accompanied her to the hospital in the ambulance. He’d been unsuccessfully trying to get the girl to open up since she’d been cleared to return for questioning. As she watched, her partner – David Lewinski – straightened from his crouch in front of her, meeting her eyes with a shake of her head.

The young officer that had paused beside her desk to question her looked exhausted. Jessica looked over his face; drawn and pale, he looked as if he’d just come from a battlefield. Jessica was willing to bet he’d been one of the first responders. “Luca, is it?” she looked at his name badge.

Luca straightened under her scrutiny. “Yes, Detective. I’m…new.” He admitted quietly.

“First call?” She asked sympathetically.

Luca swallowed thickly, eyes going to the hunched form of the girl. “Are they all- are they all like that?” he whispered, gaze flickering to the photo she was holding. The bodies of three of the eight victims were splayed on the once-white carpet, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. The wounds that had killed them were barely visible. This had been an execution. Whoever had done it, they were not unfamiliar with their craft. Jessica had no idea which mob group was responsible – there hadn’t been such a targeted and involved attack in her division before – usually the criminal underground stuck to drive-by shootings or stabbings. Messy, quick, often unsuccessful.

Jessica patted him on the shoulder, trying to muster a smile. “No. And we won’t rest till we catch these bastards.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He smiled tightly. “Uh, excuse me.”

Jessica nodded him off, replacing the photo to the file, and closing it, tucking it under her arm as she headed towards the break room. David met her at the door, and she waited for him patiently as he closed the door and leant against it with a tired groan. “I haven’t gotten a thing out of her.”

Jessica frowned. “Not even at the scene?”

David shook his head, turning to look at the girl. The nine-year-old was staring at the mug of water someone had left for her as if she was looking through it. “She didn’t even _see_ me, Jess. She was catatonic. I don’t even know her name.”

Jessica shook her file slightly. “Well, I do.”

David perked up slightly. “Oh, thank god.”

“Yeah. One of their neighbours gave names, ages. Dad immigrated from Egypt, worked his way to owning his own construction company. Mom was a social worker. Kids were all in school, the eldest two a few months away from graduating college. They were good folk. Friendly. The neighbours seemed really torn up about it.” Jessica’s lips twisted. “Kept saying they should have done something earlier, that they should have been suspicious about the noises.”

David hummed. “Well, give it your best shot. Can I have the IDs?” Jessica nodded, handing her partner the family’s details, stepping around him to let herself into the break room.

The girl didn’t react to her entrance, eyes fixed blankly on the table. With a pang, Jessica realised the girl had the same green eyes as her mother. _Poor thing._ A sudden anger filled her. She didn’t deserve the hand she had been dealt. Nine years old, and all alone. When she had been found, the officers on the scene had reported she’d been kneeling next to her mother, unspeaking, unseeing, and covered in pine-needles.

Jessica took a seat at the table, setting down her folder. She leant forwards slightly, trying to catch the girl’s eye.

“Alice?”

Alice Tybalt-Nefertari twitched, looking up to meet her gaze with wide eyes. She was in a set of ill-fitting hospital pyjamas: her old pyjamas had been taken into evidence. Jessica had already seen the pink and purple spotted cotton set, splattered in macabre red. Someone had given her an NYPD jacket, the standard issue garment dwarfing her frame. Jessica could see more of her mother now, in the girl’s slightly upturned button nose, and her high cheekbones. Her father was there too, in her thick curly hair, hooded eyes and deep skin.

“My name is Jessica. I’m Detective Lewinski’s partner.” Jessica said gently. Alice didn’t respond, though her eyes went to the precinct beyond. “Alice, do you remember what happened tonight?” This time, there was a flash of wild, violent emotion in the girl’s gaze, and Jessica watched her shiver. “Do you know who was in your house?” Alice stayed quiet. “Alice, how many people were in your house?” Jessica tried again.

There was no response from the girl in front of her. Jessica resisted the urge to sigh, and instead nudged the mug of water closer to the girl. “I’m going to go get you something to eat, okay?”

She got up, leaving the girl sitting where she was. As she exited the break room, one of her officers waved at her, beckoning her over. She headed towards the red-headed woman, who had a phone to her ear. Rose Gilmore was a transfer from a precinct over, but had slotted into the workplace easily, and Jessica was privately glad to have the level-headed woman working the case with her. Jessica waited beside the woman’s desk for Rose to finish her call.

“Yes, I understand Mrs. Parker. Yes. Yes, but legally it is an issue. I’m sorry.” Rose frowned, obviously upset for whoever she was on the phone with. “I understand you knew the family, but you are not a legal guardian, a relative, nor are you a godparent. It’s out of my hands, I’m sorry. After she’s in the system, you can look at fostering or adoption, but right now, it’s not an option. Okay. Yes. Alright. Try and have a happy Christmas.” Jessica winced at the sign off, and Rose slapped a hand to her forehead as she returned the phone to its cradle. “Oh Jesus.” She cursed her own lack of tact. “Sorry, Detective. That was the neighbours. They want to take the girl in.”

Jessica frowned. “Yeah, uniforms were saying they were upset. Family friends?”

Rose sighed. “Most likely.” She handed Jessica a printed Children’s Services form. “I just got her sorted for the Brooklyn OHEL home. They’re sending someone to get her soon. They’re aware she may need to come back and forth for a while.”

Jessica looked over the form. “I’ll go let her know.” It wouldn’t be easy, and Jessica wasn’t even sure the girl would process the information. She headed back to the room, collecting a blueberry muffin on the way.

Alice was sitting exactly where she had left her, but the mug was empty. Jessica set the muffin in front of the girl with a small smile. “You should eat something, Alice.” It was nearing daybreak, and Jessica knew that even though the girl probably didn’t eat until the sun had risen, a little sugar and some carbs might help jolt her out of her shock. Mechanically, Alice picked up the muffin, breaking a small piece off and putting the cake in her mouth and chewing before falling still again. “Alice, someone is coming to take you to a place where you’re going to stay for a little while.”

“I want to go home.” Alice’s voice was quiet, wobbly with her youth and the tears building in her eyes. “I can stay at home.”

“Alice, honey, that isn’t possible.” Jessica said soothingly. The girl’s tears spilled over, running down her cheeks. “But maybe we can see about getting some of your things. Just not right now.” The nine-year-old looked away from her, sniffling. Jessica stood up. “Would you like me to come with you in the car? Or I can get-”

“You.” Alice said quietly.

Jessica paused at the door. “Okay. I’ll be back soon.” With a small smile, she left.

“Detective Drew?” Luca, the young officer from earlier, called her name across the precinct. He was at the front desk, and looked slightly less haunted than he had earlier. She nodded, heading towards the glass partition. On the other side of the glass, a tall man with dark hair and a hooked nose was leaning against the counter, smiling patiently. “He’s here from Brooklyn OHEL.” Luca informed her quietly.

Jessica looked the man up and down. He was dressed casually, and as their eyes met, his face morphed into something sympathetic. “I understand the girl has been here all night.” He said, voice roughed by a hint of an unfamiliar accent.

“Alice.” Jessica said slowly.

The man nodded, wincing slightly. “Forgive me. Yes, _Alice_. I’ve had a long day – well, night.”

Jessica sighed in commiseration. “I _definitely_ get that, Mr…?”

He bowed his head slightly. “Mr. Lee. But please, call me Frank.” Jessica nodded to Luca, and the officer opened the door for the man to step through.

“We’ve tried to get her to sleep and eat, but she just seems to be shut down.” Jessica said over her shoulder to the social worker. At his lack of response she turned, catching him staring at the board of crime scene photographs. “Yeah… it was brutal.”

Frank snapped his attention away with an odd smile. “It is understandable about her refusal to eat. Has she spoken about anything? How much did she see?” he asked curiously.

Jessica shook her head. “We’re unsure. She hasn’t said much of anything. Still in shock – according to the doctor.” She gave him a tight smile. “I’ll go get her. We can leave out the back, just so she doesn’t have to see any of it.” Frank nodded easily, turning back to observe the busy workings of the precinct as she ducked back into the break room. “Alice?” The girl turned to her, muffin still clutched loosely in her grip. “It’s time to go. A nice man’s come to drive us to the place you’ll be staying, okay?”

* * *

Alice looked at the woman who had been her most constant companion since she’d arrived at the station. Detective Drew, the others called her, but she’d told Alice to call her Jessica. She did as the woman asked; she had been taught to listen to the adults in charge. Her mom always said-

The thought of her mom sent another paralysing wave of horror and sorrow through her. Her eyes stung, throat tightening reflexively. She wanted to cry, but for the first time in her life, Alice thought she might have no tears left. She felt dry inside. Dry and cold; like the small skull of a squirrel her and Peter had once found in the park. The bone had been clean and white, the earth around it undisturbed. It was almost as if the squirrel had just laid down and melted away. Alice wished she could do the same.

Jessica led her by the hand from the break room. The sudden flux of noise and activity made her head hurt, and she dropped her gaze to the floor, to the blue and green flooring, and tried to count the steps she was taking in her head. She couldn’t get past eight.

The car was waiting at the curb, and the frigid night air made her start to shiver, in the short walk towards the black Subaru. The still snow-covered landscape and the Christmas lights and decorations looked cartoonish in their garishness. Alice felt like the world should be in black and white, like the sad movies her sister used to-

“Alice?” Jessica was looking at her, and Alice realised she’d stopped on the sidewalk, staring at the open car door. “Come on, sweetie.”

“We need to get a move on.” The man who had come to get her sounded impatient, and Alice looked at him. He met her gaze with a blank look, face unreadable. Something prickled up and down her spine, and she took an involuntary step back. “Come on.” He snapped.

Jessica turned to glare at him. “Mr. Lee-!” He was already slamming the driver’s seat shut. “What’s his fucking problem.” The detective muttered under her breath, but Alice heard her. She didn’t want to cause any other problems, so she got in the car, Jessica getting into the passenger seat diagonally in front of her.

Mr. Lee pulled away from the curb with a squeal of tires that made Jessica scowl again. Alice turned to look out of the window. After a few minutes of the city passing by in a series of neon blurs, she realised that Mr. Lee hadn’t put the child lock on her door. Another weird tingle went down her back, like a physical sensation. Her mom always put the child lock down. _Always_ -

“Frank, I thought OHEL was on 14th.” Jessica said, squinting out of one of the windows.

“I’m taking a shortcut.” Mr. Lee’s voice was placid, but when Alice looked at him through the rear-view mirror, there was a gleam in his eyes that made her shiver.

“We just passed 14th.” Jessica turned slowly to look at Frank, and Alice watched as the brunette woman’s hands went slowly to her holster. “Where are-”

Mr. Lee reached into the centre console and drew out a handgun. Alice screamed, Jessica opened her mouth to yell, and Mr. Lee fired a single shot. Alice was still screaming when Jessica slumped back against the window, a fine spray of red obscuring the glass around her.

Mr. Lee met her eyes in the rear-view mirror again, and Alice felt her world slow down to a crawl.

As the man – who was _not_ a social worker – began to turn in his seat, mouth twisting into a terrifying snarl, Alice undid her seatbelt and threw open the car door. The car was still moving, and she hit the cement of the road on her hands and knees with excruciating force. The squealing of breaks made her get up as the car began to reverse back down the quiet street towards her.

Alice ran.

She stumbled across the road, narrowly missing a taxicab which honked at her, forcing her aching legs to go as fast as they could, heading towards the dark alley. She had been told never to go out by herself at night. She had been told to avoid strangers. She had been told not to go down streets with no lighting. But right then, whatever nightmares she had held in her little head, the skulking shadows in the corners of alleyways, the bad people with reaching fingers, the cautionary tales fizzled into nothing in light of the very real monster behind her.

She ran, leaping over garbage and debris, almost slipping on filthy ice and snow being melted by the steaming pipes spewing smoke and pollution into the narrow passageways. She ran and ran, turning down the twisting and interlocked backstreets of New York until she couldn’t run anymore. She skidded to a stop at a dead-end alley, bricked in by the towering apartment blocks on three sides of her. She panted, panic making her breath even shorter.

“ _Psst. Hey, girl!”_

She jumped, heart leaping into her throat. In the shadowy corner in between two dumpsters, something glittered. She swallowed thickly, taking a hesitant step back.

“If you want to hide, you’d better make it quick…” the rough voice croaked from the shadows, and – quick as lighting – a wrinkled hand shot out, fingertips pale with cold, skin liver spotted and scarred across the knuckles. “Come here, girl.” There was a sudden authority to the voice, not imperious, just surety, and Alice swayed in place. In the distance, a low growl of a car engine got closer and then stopped. Alice thought she heard a car door close, and footsteps in the distance. “Quick!”

Alice darted for the hand and the voice. The glitter turned out to be a jingling chain of dog-tags, and a single silver incisor in the mouth of one of the oldest and filthiest men Alice had ever seen. He smelt of old mildew and cigarette smoke, but he was barely looking at her; beady blue eyes scanning the alley over her head. He was bald, but for the last vestiges of thin grey hair clinging to the top of his scalp like smoke. He was wearing an old army jacket, torn and faded, filthy and crumpled – but the lines of colourful patches were unmistakable, as was the crest over his heart.

He lifted the bit of blanket dangling over the dumpster and his legs, and Alice dove under, squirreling her way into the pile of the man’s belongings, mercifully free from snow, though the cardboard beneath her knees was damp. She huddled behind a pair of what felt like garbage bags in the pitch black, the rough brick against her back reminding her of her scraped up palms and knees. They stung.

Then, footsteps in the alley.

Alice froze.

The old man shifted slightly, the gap of the old blanket lifting slightly, so that in the dim light reflecting off the wet cement, Alice could see the shine of the man’s boots.

“Have you seen a girl come through here?” Mr. Lee asked politely.

Alice stared at the boots.

_She knew those boots._

She had seen eight pairs of those same boots in her house. She had watched those boots track blood into her carpet. She had watched those boots crush the faces of those she loved. She had watched those boots leave as if nothing had happened.

“Got any change?” the voice of the old man had changed again. It had become wheezy and crackling, and Alice could feel his body shift forwards imploringly. “Please, I just need a dollar…please… I need-”

“Have you seen a child come through here?” Mr. Lee – though Alice suspected that was not his real name – asked again, impatience thickening his accent. “She is small. Dark haired, brown skinned. You will be rewarded if-”

“How about a smoke? Do you have a smoke? A cigarette? If you’d spare one, I’d be so grateful, sir.” The old man began to sound wheedling, pathetic, and then bent double with the force of a great cough, hacking and spitting. Mr. Lee made a disgusted sound. Then his boots turned and left. Alice listened to the heavy steps fade away, turned to stone. The sudden influx of cold air as the blanket was ripped away made her squeak in fright, hand clamping over her own mouth to stifle her noise. The man was staring down at her, and Alice felt a trill of fear at the piercing, unreadable emotion in his watery eyes. “You a runaway?” he asked gruffly, the sudden question making Alice start again.

Slowly, she shook her head. “No.” She said quietly.

“Speak up, girl!” he barked, and she swallowed thickly.

“No. I got no one to runaway from.” She admitted.

“Except that man with a gun in his back pocket.” He said sharply. “You lyin’ to me, girl?”

Alice blinked. “W-what? No! He was- he tried- they-” panic made her thoughts scrambled, the late hour made her stutter, the cold was making her shake, and though she thought she had cried all the tears she ever would, her eyes began to well up again. “He’s one of the ones that killed my family!” she cried out.

The man sat and watched her as she wept, and Alice couldn’t help but resent his silence a little. _Couldn’t he see she was upset? Would it hurt him to comfort her?_ She felt stupid in the next moment. He was a strange old homeless man. Maybe he was just waiting for her to be quiet so he could-

And then she would be with her-

_No._

Her chest stung with pain again, and she pressed a hand to it. The man watched her movement. Finally, he coughed again, the sound far less theatrical than his performance earlier. “Well. That is _very_ dramatic and _very_ unfortunate.” Alice stared at him through her tears, mouth dropping open in surprise. “What’s your name, girl?” at her struck-dumb silence, he scowled. “Shall I address you as Orphan Annie, then? Speak _up_ , girl.”

Alice blinked. “A-Alice. Alice Tybalt-Nefertari. But my dad,” her voice broke, and she snapped her mouth shut, willing herself to stop trembling, willing her tears to stop falling. Finally, when she could take a breath without sobbing, she tried again. “My dad always calls me Akilah.”

“Called.” The man said abruptly, lined face creasing deeper with his frown.

“What?”

“When someone is dead, you use past tense. He _called_ you Akilah.” The old man said. Alice didn’t know what to say, and they sat there for another long silent moment, his stare going a little through her, as if he couldn’t see her anymore. The alley was silent, though the sounds of a city waking were beginning to rumble around the high walls of the street. The night sky was beginning to lighten. It was Christmas morning. Alice’s stomach rumbled audibly, and she chanced a look over the man’s shoulder. If she made a run for it now, then maybe she could find a policeman before Mr. Lee, or one of the other booted men, or the Couch-Man found her. If she could just get up and past the old man-

“Fine.” he grunted abruptly, eyes refocussing on her with laser-like precision. She straightened under his eyes, and he narrowed his eyes at her. “You’ve been marked, girl. Cursed, maybe, with some misfortune. I guess it’s up to me to break your bad luck. Now come on.” With surprising ease, he rose to his feet, and wound the blanket around his beaten-up jacket, covering his dog-tags and US Military seal. He pushed at the dumpster next to her, revealing a small door marked with an old sign saying ‘FIRE EXIT’, and then a more recent sign reading ‘OUT OF USE’. He pulled open the door, and disappeared. Alice sat and stared, shakily rising to her feet. _This was her chance_.

The old man stuck his head back out of the dark doorway. “Hurry up. We have to be off the street before daybreak.” He squinted at her again, a slow, humourless smile growing on his old face, his silver tooth winking at her in the low light. “I’d suggest you come with me. Whatever misplaced faith you have in the police has already been proven a bad idea. Whoever that man works for wants you dead. I know bad men like him. And they don’t stop hunting. Ever.”

He disappeared, and Alice heard the faint patter of his footsteps disappearing into the unknown beyond the door.

_They don’t stop hunting. Ever._

Alice followed the man through the door.

He was already a few flights of stairs above her, invisible in the lightless and airless winding staircase spiralling up into nothingness. Alice listened to his laboured breathing, imagining she could hear the creak and groan of his old bones.

“I’d be careful about your name, girl.” He called abruptly, voice echoing slightly. “It’s not wise to have a name people know.” He grunted to himself, and there was the sound of something scraping on metal. “I gave up my name when I gave up my life. You should do the same.”

“What’s your name now?” Alice asked, still in the doorway. If she stepped inside, if the door closed, there’d be no light left – and no turning back.

“You can call me Tom.” He said, voice distant. Alice took a step forwards, and the door closed behind her with a definite thud.

It took her a moment to find the staircase, and she started the climb haltingly, afraid to miss a step, afraid to fall, toes catching on the steps, fingers grasping the metal bannister like a lifeline. Finally, when she made to take another step up, almost falling flat as her extended foot found nothing but air, a hand gripped at her with the same surprising strength. “I’ll ask you again, girl,” There was an almighty creak as Tom shoved another door open, and the cold morning air came rushing in through the bright doorway. Alice squinted, throwing a hand over her eyes as she tiptoed out of the stairs and into the morning sun. “What’s your name?”

From the high rooftop, the city looked small. The buildings were glittering in the sunlight, snow like crystals refracting a brilliance to the skyline. Alice felt a horrible, overwhelming elation at the removal. For a moment, high above the world, with the sun gold and blue on her skin, she could pretend to be living in a dream.

_What’s your name?_

“You can call me…” She echoed Tom’s words from earlier, mind feeling fuzzy and wispy, oddly faraway, all her thoughts the same shape as the thin clouds in the blue-grey sky. Alice was no longer Alice. She couldn’t be Alice _._ _But she badly wanted to be_.

“Alley Cat.”


	5. The Thief

The crowd of bachelorettes that split onto the street from the pub did so in a cloud of drunken laughter, unaffected by the disgruntled side eye of passers-by, unapologetic in their jubilance. A few of them embraced the bride-to-be, whining about their parting as they began to split in pairs. The majority of the group stayed huddled around the bride, talking loudly about the next place to hit, and _should they get a cab or call an Uber?_

They were easiest like this. They thought they had safety in numbers, and general drunkenness always made things smooth.

 _They_ , being her targets.

Quickly, she brought her hood up, adjusted her gloves, and ducked her head as she meandered towards the group of women together on the sidewalk – head bowed as if bracing the cold wind making a few of the women in short skirts hide their shivers. Quickly and quietly, she moved through and around them, muttering apologies, giving soothing pats. Women weren’t usually bothered by other women. Her female voice made them smile instead of shying away warily. She gave one last apology, an awkward wave, and crossed the road – as if that had been her intention all along.

Her pockets were heavier now, and when she balled her fists into them, she met her newest treasures. _Salvaged_ , as Tom liked to say. Salvaged treasures. _Liberated_ , as she preferred.

She broke into a jog when she reached the other side of the road. It was never wise to hang around too long after a jaunt. She knew the city better now, and she slipped into the nearest side street, nodding to the pair of women digging through a dumpster near the entrance.

“Out hunting?” The taller of the two, missing several teeth, with a scabbing sore above her lip waggled her eyebrows expressively.

“Just playing, Jo.” She responded easily, lightly. Tom told her not to fear any of the other people on the streets with them, but he told her to be aware. Just because they were in the same boat didn’t mean they wouldn’t let you drown to stay afloat. “Sup, Marsha.” She greeted the shorter woman, who she’d seen on a few of the corners some of the working girls occupied. Looked as though Marsha was taking some time off.

Marsha lifted her head, squinting through an impressive black eye. “Fuck off, kid.” She rasped. She looked too thin, and went back to scrabbling through the trash.

Jo shrugged at her, turning back to the heap. Alley sighed, and dug briefly through her pockets. She pulled out a couple of dollar bills and thrust them at the women. Jo’s eyes lit up, and she darted for the money. Alley was faster, yanking it out of her reach. “Wait. Get something for her face, okay?”

Marsha looked up slowly, giving her an unreadable look. “You’re still with Tommy?” She asked lowly. The red-headed woman had been beautiful once, Alley could see it. But weeks, months, living down here tended to take away everything you had. Including looks.

She debated lying. Tom believed in honour among thieves, and part of their deal was to share all resources implicitly between the two of them. Giving away something wasn’t exactly in either of their best interests, but Marsha obviously knew Tom, and Alley couldn’t help but feel sympathy for the too-thin woman. It was Tom’s grace that was keeping Alley from becoming Marsha. She wondered if the other woman realised that too. “I’m my own person, Marsha. You want it or not?”

Jo and Marsha exchanged a look, before Marsha nodded. This time when Jo reached for the money, Alley gave it to her. “You’re lucky, Alley Cat.” Jo said, grinning viciously, the stretch of her mouth threatening to split open her scab.

Alley resisted the urge to laugh hysterically. She managed a wry smile, backing down the alley. “So, I’ve been told.” When the women were out of sight, she headed for the nearest fire-escape. Her body had grown used to this; hauling herself up the sides of buildings, keeping her balance on thin railings, quietly moving through a city that never slept.

That first day, after the sun had risen, she’d fallen unconscious in the little den Tom occupied on the roof of his building. And it was _his_ building, just like that alley was _his_ , just like the city was _his_ , just like she was _his_ too. Tom had been living on the streets of Brooklyn longer than she had been alive, and he knew more about the city and its people than anyone else. Tom also knew how to survive.

And he’d been teaching her.

It had been hard. But truthfully, she savoured every aching muscle, every strained breath, every dreamless, exhausted sleep, because it meant she didn’t have to think about what she had left behind, what had been _taken_ from her.

For a few weeks after the night it all ended, her face had been plastered across the city. She saw herself on television, she heard her old name on the radio, she walked past missing posters with her face in black and white taped to walls, and every day she had wondered if she should let herself be found.

Tom had told her they would forget, and whilst she didn’t want to believe him, with the coming of the New Year, all traces of her seemed to be taken down and stored away with the Christmas decorations.

He had been, as always, right. She had just been a face and an old name. They hadn’t really cared.

Besides, Alley Cat was better. Newer. Bolder. Smarter. Stronger.

Tom taught her how to steal, how to make her fingers deft and swift. He had taught her to scavenge and stockpile, to barter and bargain and wheedle and lie and charm. He taught her how to build a fire with damp card and old wood, how to pitch a tent, how to patch up holes in roofs. He taught her to hold her own weight, how to run fast and think quicker still. He taught her where to hit to hurt, and where to aim to kill. He taught her to stop being afraid.

His friends called him Ginger Tom and they laughed at her; the little Alley Cat, trailing beside and behind their hero. Because Tom was a hero. He was hardened and shrewd, but he wasn’t cruel and he commanded respect that others could only admire. To others, she was lucky. Lucky to have his patronage. Lucky to be kept out of the darker parts of New York’s underbelly. Lucky to be alive.

She hauled herself over the brick lip of the apartment block, balancing for a moment on the very edge. As always, with risk so close, the faint lines over her heart stung with phantom pain. Tom said it was psychosomatic. She didn’t really remember much about That Night, but Tom told her that when she’d come to him, she’d been bruised and scratched, and he figured she had done it to herself.

She didn’t remember it; but the now-healed scarring over her heart said otherwise. Nine lines, the raised pink of scar tissue. Nine lives, that had been taken – ten, if she included her own. Absently, she pressed her hand flat over the scars, and imagined her heart stopping.

The sound of the pigeons cooing drew her from her reverie, and she headed towards the wire cage that housed the birds during the night. When dawn came, she would set them free, and they would spiral upwards in a grey smoke-like flurry of wings. She crouched before the coop, and stuck her fingers through the holes in the wire. As always, the few that were awake began to sing nervously. She unsettled the birds, and if she was up on the roof when it was time for them to roost, they would delay the act, and sit in clumps out of reach, watching her with anxious, beady eyes.

“Stop scaring the birds!”

Tom’s barked order made her grin to herself, and she stood, swivelling on the balls of her feet to meet the glower of the old man hanging out of the empty water tower they called home. Tom glared at her a moment longer, before ducking back into the small, rusting structure. The whole apartment block was in a state of disuse, and because the residents were too poor to think to worry about anything but keeping their own roof over their heads, Tom had lived atop the roof without trouble for years.

She took her time heading towards the tower, part of her revelling in the small rebellion. Inside, it was still warm, and the small camper stove’s flame was flickering merrily. That camper stove and it’s faint smell of gas, and its tiny, hardworking flame sometimes seemed to be the nicest and friendliest thing in the city, and she thought she might never sleep a wink if not for its hard work.

Tom was pouring over his box of trinkets, and he had his magnifying lens up to his eye. When he looked up at her entrance, his watery blue eye was massive and knowing, and she felt the guilt she thought she’d conquered fill her chest again.

“I gave away some bills.” She said, without preamble. The eye sharpened and she shoved her hands deep into her pockets. “To Marsha. For her eye.” Tom grunted, the eye softening just enough for her to take another step inside. “But I have other things.” She emptied her pockets onto the flat of her pillow.

The thin gold chain of a delicate Tiffany bracelet had tangled around a small crystal topped pin, and she gently tugged it free, and laid it flat beside a few hair ties and a slim watch. The rest was half a protein bar, still in its wrapper, and a crust of sandwich which she would give to the pigeons before she let them out. Without the crumpled bills, it was definitely a smaller taking than usual, but she figured the bracelet would be enough.

Tom’s grunt this time was definitively positive, and she sat back on her haunches as he reached for the pin and the bracelet. “Is it real?” she asked, eyeing the way the small clear stone winked in the light of the small oil lamp on the table.

He breathed on the small stone, and held it up to check the condensation. He frowned again, this time in frustration. “It’s too small to tell. Take it to the shop when you go out.” She nodded, and broke the bar in half, offering him the untouched end. He took it, and shoved it into his mouth whole with a happy grumble.

Another thing she had learnt; how to decipher the wordless noises Tom made. Often when he grumbled he wasn’t actually grumbling, and often when he smiled he wasn’t actually smiling.

She leant back against the cardboard that insulated the water tower, and watched him work. His hands, though spotted, and scarred and knobbled from age, were deft and agile, and he kept the first two nails of his left hand long and sharp enough to pick unerringly through the trinkets at his desk. The late hour was beginning to wear on her, and as her eyelids began to droop to the quiet clinking and humming, she knew that dawn was drawing nearer.

She dragged herself upright, disentangling herself from the pile of ragged blankets she usually slept beneath, and left the tower.

The first vestiges of the dawn were beginning to bleach the darkness of the night sky a gentler indigo. She hadn’t seen the sun properly in a little while. Jaunts were always riskier in the daylight, people more alert, more police on the streets, less shadows to hide in.

The birds were waking properly now, warbling their morning song, and she approached the roost again, feeding crumbs of the crust through the wire. They squabbled for the tiny morsels, and as the sun began to become visible again, she opened the hatch. The pigeons soared skywards without delay, and began their circling spiral out to the city.

She watched them for a moment, picking at the holes in her sweater and idly imaging flying through the city, above the muck and grime. Absolute freedom.

* * *

“It’s real. Low carat and shit clarity though.”

Ernest, the owner of the pawnshop on East 18th, looked up to give her a hard stare. By now, of course, she was well used to these stony looks. They usually preceded bargaining, and she was also used to the clipped tones in which he conducted his business. Ernest asked no questions, and demanded none in return, but she suspected he got as much pleasure out of the act of haggling as she did. The first few times she’d come to East’s Pawn Shop, it had been with Tom, and she’d flinched every time the two men had swore and spat as they argued the price of a treasure.

Now, Tom trusted her enough to go herself, and now she was confident enough to return victorious. “One hundred.” She began first, without preamble.

He drew himself up behind the dirty plastic window and glowered. “You must be fucking delusional, girl.” He shook his head disbelievingly; “forty is good enough.”

“You’re criminal.” She told him, jabbing her gloved fingers at him. One of the knuckles was already worn through, and she could see the knob of her own finger through the fabric. “Eighty-five.”

“No – _you_ are a criminal.” He told her, and she shrugged. It was true. “Forty-five.”

“No.” She shook her head. “Give it back. I’ll take it to Abraham’s.” He shook, he spat, he muttered something under his breath. She would do no such thing, because John Abraham and his assistant _did_ ask questions, but it was a good bluff. “C’mon, give it back. I’m only ten, and I need to eat…” she adopted a patented starved-and-hard-done-by look and wobbled her bottom lip.

“Oh, fuck off.” He told her, “Cut the crap, you know it don’t work. Fifty-five.”

She dropped the act. “Seventy.”

“Sixty.”

“Sixty-five.”

“No.”

“Fine.”

She shoved her arm through the small opening, and they shook hands. He opened a cabinet and dropped the pin and his diamond tester into it, and then wheeled himself over to the till. She watched him count the crisp bills, and tucked her fists back into her pockets. “If I have a bracelet, real gold-”

“How many carats.” He interrupted her casual comment, not even looking up from the money.

“I don’t know. But it’s Tiffany,” She continued, “What would you recommend for, ah, cleaning it?” By cleaning, she meant getting rid of the small engraved initials on the clasp.

He hummed in genuine thought, casting a cursory eye behind him to the racks of tools and materials. “I would recommend at least 800 grit sandpaper.” As he spoke, he pulled off a strip of the stuff, and tucked it into the envelope he was placing the money in. “But it might degrade the value.” As in, she would have to pay cost for using the sandpaper before she brought in the bracelet.

“By how much?” she demanded, taking the envelope from him and tucking it in-between her waistband and stomach.

He smiled slightly, nothing but a faint upturn of his lips, and it didn’t quite touch his eyes. “Only by a couple of dollars.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I’ll remember you said that. Maybe you should write it down somewhere too. Just so you don’t forget.”

The not-quite smile disappeared. “Get out of my shop, Alley Cat.”

She grinned, and flicked him a lazy salute, shouldering her way out of the door and onto the street. She drifted into the foot traffic, letting the current of pedestrians carry her towards the nearest alley. Habitually, she checked the full trash can by the entrance, flicking her eyes over the discarded wrappers and coffee cups. Her stomach growled, but her pride reminded her of the money in her pocket, and she told herself to keep walking.

With the errand done, she was at a bit of a loss of what to do. It was still early – for her, anyways – and she paused to squint at the time through a shop window. Nearly three-thirty in the afternoon. _Very_ early. She didn’t normally leave the tower until well after sundown, and she yawned involuntarily at the thought of the cosy den.

Before she kept walking, one of the girls behind the counter caught her eye and wrinkled her pert, button nose. Automatically, she ducked her head and turned to go, but not before catching the edge of her reflection in the clean glass. She knew what the girl saw. Another vagrant. One of the dirty, unwashed displaced peoples that weren’t supposed to go in, or even be near high-end, five-dollar-coffee-bakery-boutiques.

Her eyes looked too big for her face, standing stark against the dirt on her skin, and the holes in her obviously unwashed clothes were evident and – she realised with a startling flush – embarrassing. She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt the sick, hot, almost-shameful emotion. 

A flash of memory; _damp sheets that weren’t her own, and a boy’s face wrinkled in the same disgust. A cry of outrage, and her own answering, humiliated sobs. A warm touch, a motherly reassurance-_

She stilled.

A sharp bump against her shoulder, and an aggravated huff of the pedestrian she had inadvertently inconvenienced made her shift automatically to the side. She kept moving until her back had flattened against a tall, industrial piece of metal so cold she could feel it through her sweater. Above her, the 7-train rattled and rumbled past. In the shadow of the above-ground tracks, she blinked until she was seeing straight.

She hadn’t thought about Peter Parker since… _then_. Since The Night.

But the memory of him, appalled at the fact she had wet his bed in the throes of a nightmare, was so clear. That had been… almost six years ago. She hadn’t seen him in almost a full year now. She was tiptoeing around the centre of all the other things. If she thought too long or too hard, then all the other things would come back too-

_Pine and a wet, metallic tang filled her nose-_

_Peter_. Peter Parker and the feeling of his hand wrapped around her own. Peter Parker and the reluctant kindness he had extended her. Peter Parker and a few dollar bills, and the playground at the end of their street, and soda from Delmar’s.

That wasn’t- he was-

The sickening smell went away, and she kept thinking about other things, about the scraps of Peter that were safe to think about it. Above her, another train roared by, and she shook with its passing, and hoped that her memories weren’t too shaken by it. Hoped that nothing had been dislodged.

It was three-thirty in the afternoon, and she wiped away the sweat on her brow that had formed despite the chill in the air and told herself she wouldn’t be embarrassed again.

* * *

Tom didn’t say anything when she came in just after sundown. It would have been strange if she hadn’t noticed the faint sheen to his eyes, and hadn’t seen him running a finger over a worn photo she’d never quite been able to look at properly.

She wasn’t the only one worried about shaking things loose.

Tom had fought more battles than the ones she saw. Tom had fought a real war, with guns and bullets and bodies and blood. Sometimes, she would be awoken by his yelling. Tom still fought the war sometimes, still saw the jungle and the Vietcong, in sleep and in wake. Sometimes when he taught her things, he’d call her soldier, with that sheen to his eyes. Once, when he’d been showing her how to hold a knife, his old fingers had stilled around hers, and he’d whispered; “ _they are getting younger, Jack. They’re sending children to die.”_

She didn’t know who Jack was. Wasn’t sure she’d ever know.

But there was something about the sheen, and the unpredictability of his moods when it came over him, that made her antsy. It itched at her feet and her arms, and made her twitchy. She dropped the money and sandpaper in front of him, unsurprised by his lack of reaction, and left the tower again.

Still, the itchy, twitchy feeling remained, and she reached up to touch her temples. _Keep it locked tight, keep your head screwed on, don’t let things come loose._ She made a sound, something slipping loose from her throat that she didn’t recognize. The pigeons cooed anxiously behind her, and she turned to watch them, even as it kicked up their fussing more.

She didn’t want to disturb Tom, and as her skin prickled and itched again, she left the roof.

The subway was crowded, perhaps a little more than usual, and it was only after she surfaced in Manhattan she realised why. There had been a plane crash – not too far from here – and if the screens at Time Square were to be believed, it had involved heroes and villains, and Tony Stark. _Iron Man._

Peter used to have Iron Man posters stuck up all around his room, and she could still picture the proud look he got whenever he replayed the events of the Stark Expo he had attended, and had his brush with the man in the suit of armour.

She had once felt the same awe he had.

One of the first things Tom had taught her was to spit at the idea of them. The ‘Avengers’. The world’s mighty defenders. Superheroes.

 _Crock of shit._ Tom had snarled with real vitriol. _They only care for their image. If they were serious about it, tell me why we’re living like this._

She hadn’t needed Tom to tell her that. She had stopped believing in heroes, in defenders, in avengers on The Night that Alice had died. If they were really heroes, then the men that had- her family- her mo-

There was that dangerous, shaking sensation. She held her hands to her temples again and turned away from the glow of the square. _Don’t shake anything loose._

_Avenge: to inflict harm in return to an injury done to oneself or others._

Behind her, footage of a burning wreckage smouldered red against the night. A dangerous notion began to grow in her mind.


	6. The Avenger

“How do I find someone?”

Tom paused in his careful stitching to look at her. The slim needle in his grip shone briefly in the lowlight on the roof as he set it and the shirt aside. She held his gaze, but her own hands kept scrubbing furiously at the rusty piece of tin sheeting they were going to use to repair the roof. They’d sprung a leak in the last couple of days, and cardboard wasn’t going to cut it this time.

“Who, Cat?” He asked, already suspicious, and peering at her with far too much knowing. “You haven’t gone lookin’ already, have ya?” Self-consciously, she reached up to poke at the black eye that was slowly but surely developing on her right eye.

“No.” She muttered. “And it don’t matter who.” The black eye was a result of boredom – she’d wandered close to one of the fancier private schools and goaded a group of older boys in blazers into a fight. A brief smugness warmed her belly at the memory of the tallest boy’s nose bleeding all over his fresh-pressed uniform.

Tom chuffed a humourless laugh. “’Course it fuckin’ matters, girl. Some people are harder to find than others.”

She kept scrubbing at the tin, thinking about what to say. A particularly stubborn piece of rust diverted her attention for long enough that Tom picked up his sewing again. After another minute of fruitless scrubbing, she set down her brush, and looked at him again. “The bad men. The ones that k-killed them.” she only stuttered a little, and for that she was proud.

Tom cursed, his hands shaking with a sudden tremor that drove the needle into his thumb. He shot her a furious look, sticking the tender spot into his mouth. “No.” He growled finally.

That had not been the reaction she had been expecting. “What?” she craned towards him, bending her body over the metal to try and meet his downcast eyes.

“Are you deaf or just stupid? No.” He snapped at her, and stabbed through the worn fabric with far more force than he needed.

“Why not?” She demanded, the faint rush of irritation in her stomach tamping the usual respect she affected with him.

Tom’s lips had drawn back in a slight snarl, silver incisor sparkling furiously. “Stupid, then.” He muttered, almost to himself. He affixed her with a baleful look. “Those bad men, girl, you won’t find ‘em. Even if ya did – what are you gonna do, huh?”

She blinked, now caught between anger and uncertainty. “I’m gonna- I’ll-”

“What? You gonna kill them, girl?” His voice was hard, cold in an emotion she didn’t recognize. It reminded her of the sheen, and she looked away from his sharp, sharp eyes. “You gonna get your hands wet and red? Hmm? Drive a knife through their black hearts?”

_Pine and metal. Wet carpet. Wet and red._

“-maybe you’ll choke em’, wrap your little hands around their necks and wring until they’re just bodies. You gonna shoot them down like they did your folks?”

She stood with a great scraping clatter of sheet metal and tools, and the bucket full of greasy, soapy water tipped over and the foamy liquid spilled darkly across the cement. She stared at the mess she had made and breathed out pine and frost. Reflected in the water, her mother’s open eyes stared back, empty and unseeing, and her chest throbbed and itched.

“You need to put them out of mind, Alley Cat.”

Tom’s voice had softened. Still, she couldn’t look away from those dead eyes, and the mess, and she thought she felt pine needles against her skin and in her chest.

“You can’t kill. You won’t.”

It sounded like a promise, and she dragged her eyes up to meet his. There was knowing in the chill of his irises, and she nodded jerkily. He was the first to look away, clicking his tongue and muttering absently for her to “ _clean that shit up.”_

As she soaked up the dirty water with old cloth, she thought about the faceless Man on the Sofa, and she imagined the boots scattered on a hard floor, bloodied with the red of their owners. And her stomach roiled and turned, but not in nausea, in something like anticipation.

* * *

There was a pounding in her temples; the ache of exhaustion that came from over-exertion, and yet she didn’t slow her relentless movement.

She threw herself recklessly from the lip of the roof, and for a moment, was suspended in space in-between the two apartment blocks. Her landing was shaky, and when she tucked and rolled to absorb the hard impact of her landing, she felt her teeth clatter together and her shoulder twinge painfully. She forced herself to her feet anyway, and kept running.

She ran until she dropped these days.

She ran on the streets, and then when that grew boring, when she thought she must have mapped every alley in Queens and then some, she took it to the next level. She gripped fire escapes, balanced on industrial catwalks, leapt between roofs, dug her nails into impossible grips between bricks, hauled herself up, up, up and over whatever obstacle she could find. Sometimes she ran to run, sometimes she ran to get away.

She had calloused now, roughing her palms, hardening her heels and feet. She wore through trainers and shirts and pants.

But if she didn’t run hard enough to pass out into a deep, exhausted sleep then she would dream. And her dreams hadn’t improved of late. She could always taste them when she woke; evergreen and sour metal tang in the back of her throat.

She let herself fall, jumping down to balance on the edge of a balcony just off the roof, and reached for the fire escape. She made her way down slowly, muscles crying out for a break, fingers and palms smarting from the rasp of brick against them.

She dropped quietly onto the uneven cement of the alley below, just a few feet from the street entrance, and headed towards the lights of the street. She was about to turn out, make her way back to the tower, when the faint muffled edge of _something_ caught her attention.

She paused, turning uncertainly back to the darkness behind her, the impenetrable shadows coalescing where the streetlights couldn’t reach.

_There._

There it was again. She twitched, squinting into the alley. This time, with her focus, she thought it sounded _human._ Then, something scraped on the brick, a distinct sound of a scuffle, and then a tinkling as something glass was dropped and shattered. She felt that same itching, whispering feeling she felt on the edges of roofs, when Tom got in a mood, when she thought something might shake free.

She took a step back into the alley.

“Hello?” She called into the blackness. To her own ears she sounded uncertain and meek; a child’s cry.

Now, closer, that muffled noise solidified. It was a whimper, and then a man spoke. Yelled, really. “Fuck off, kid!”

More shuffling and scuffling, and her skin itched and itched and the scars on her chest burnt with sudden ferocity. She took another step into the alley, and another and another, until shapes began to form in the dark, and something glinted coldly.

It was two figures. One, tall and thin, undeniably the man that had spoken, the second, smaller and cowering, pressed flat to the brick. A woman. A woman with eyes blown wide in fear, her dress torn, and a knife to her neck. 

Several things happened very quickly, and though her mind was white with shock, her reaction was smooth and precise. Something like muscle memory guided her, as she leapt at the man, hands closing desperately around the arm holding the knife. At her movement, the woman began to buck and cry out again, and as she jolted, the man’s gloved hand covering her mouth slipped, and her scream came out high and clear, bouncing off the walls of the alley.

With her full weight behind it, the man’s arm gave way, but now with his other hand free, he grunted and twisted, hitting her across the side of the face. The bright, popping pain was a lot more intense than the limp-wristed hits of private school boys, and she had to blink rapidly at the flashing light that obscured her vision for a moment.

“Little bitch-” the man was swearing, kicking the woman viciously in the gut as she tried to wriggle from his grip. The woman gagged and folded in half, and the man fisted his hand in her hair to haul her upright and against the wall again. “I’ll cut your throat, whore, _shut up-”_ he shook her hard, and the woman’s head cracked against the brick and lolled like a ragdoll, and she forced herself to her feet.

“Let her go.” Her voice shook and sounded far away – though that might have been the dull ringing in her ears.

The man laughed. He was wild-eyed, dark haired, and the sickly pale of a junkie. His clothes were near as dirty and filthy as her own. He bared his yellowed teeth at her, and swung the knife threateningly in her direction. “I’ll kill you first, kiddie, _c’mere_!”

With that, he lunged at her, the woman crumpling as he let her go. She twisted, jumping back to avoid the stab at her face. With his arm outstretched and stumbling from his own unbroken momentum, she kicked as hard as she could at his knee.

“ _You’re weak, girl, too skinny, with twig-arms to boot. Hmm. You got no power in ya punches.”_ Tom had her building up her upper-body strength, but he was right. He was always right. “ _Kick ‘em. Wherever it hurts, and then some, huh? Yes – just like **that**!”_

She heard the slick slip and crack of something moving wrong, and he howled, buckling forwards, but he hadn’t dropped the knife. She lashed out again, spinning her upper-body into the kick, just like Tom had taught her, and her boot caught him around the face. There was another one of those wet snaps, and he stopped making noise, finally releasing the knife as he stumbled and fell, clutching at his jaw.

She pounced on it as it went skittering away, and wrapped her hand around the worn handle. It was a steak knife, the wooden-handled ones they gave out at burger joints. A gurgle from behind her made her turn.

The woman was attempting to right herself, and she could see bruises beginning to form on her face, one eye swelling shut. For a moment, with blood running down her cheek, she thought she saw Thalia.

_Pine and frost and blood._

Because that was what that metallic scent was. It was everywhere, wet and hot and red. Blood on her boots, and running out of the wound on the woman’s head. She dropped the knife with a clatter, and hurried to her side.

She smelt like the girls who worked corners, that cheap, floral perfume they all bought clinging to her skin, even though the sweating and bleeding. She supposed that was kind of the point of wearing it. Gently, she pushed her into a sitting position. She eased up the ripped neck of her dress, trying to cover the woman’s exposed chest and bra. The woman was watching her out of her one good eye, and she licked her dry lips nervously.

“Do you have a phone?” she asked quietly.

“ _N- plisss_ …” the womans sudden hiss was incomprehensible, but she recognised the panic in her eye, as she grabbed her hand. “ _no, pol…”_

“I won’t call the cops.” She shook her head, squeezing the woman’s hand reassuringly. “But you have someone you can call?” The woman inclined her head weakly, relaxing back against the wall. Her lip was busted too. Movement from behind her made her turn. The man was stirring, pushing himself up onto his feet with a low groan of pain. The woman let out a low, frightened wheeze, straining again, her one open eye going wide.

Her gut twisted, and she stood, curling her fingers around the knife again.

The man turned slowly at the sound of her approach. His jaw was at a funny angle, and he was holding himself up by the wall opposite. She let her arm dangle, let the blade reflect light into his eyes. He let out a tangle of pained, indecipherable noise, an attempt at speech.

She didn’t see him then, she saw wicked eyes, heard a high, chilling laugh – and it was like she was back in the living room. _Pine and frost and blood and to inflict pain in return._ To avenge.

She lashed out at him like he had done to the woman – she swiped the knife across his exposed face, and red welled and rushed down his cheek. His recoil sent his head thumping back into the brick, and as he blinked, buckling slowly, she hit him like he had hit her. This time, when he connected with the wall, he was still.

Her knuckles ached, her exhausted body trembled, her head still rang – but her hands were steady as she wiped the blade clean on his shirt, and stowed the knife in her back pocket. There was blood on her fingers too. She wasn’t sure whose it was. When she turned back to the woman, she was clutching her phone to her ear, shivering but looking more alert.

She crouched in front of her again, and tugged her thin sleeve over her fingers to gently reach out and wipe at the drying trickle of blood running from the woman’s lips. “Th-thank you.” The woman whispered. “Why…?” she trailed off, eyes slipping behind her to the man, still unconscious.

She shrugged, an awkward half-roll of her shoulders that sent pain down her back. With her adrenaline rush fading, she was acutely aware of her exhaustion. “Wouldn’t you?” The woman looked uncomfortable, and stayed silent. She looked over her shoulder to the street beyond. “Wanna get out of here?”

“Fuck, yes.” The woman accepted her help gracelessly, both of them still slightly too unsteady to do more than hobble, made even more difficult by the tall pink heels the woman was wearing. As they reached the light, she reached into her small bag, and fished out a pack of cigarettes. She proffered the pack with her free hand. “Want one?” Alley shrugged, and pulled one out, tucking it into her pocket. The woman snorted, and then winced, touching her bloodied nose.

“What happened?” Alley tilted her face into the streetlight, pretending that the artificial yellow light was sunshine for a moment.

The woman blew out a large cloud, half smoke and half the fog of her breath in the chill of the night air. “He took me for a drive. All normal. Then he pulls over, and pulls a knife.” Her voice was calm, but her fingers were shaking, and though her face was swollen, she thought she saw a distant horror in her eyes. _In shock, then._

She looked around the quiet street. “Where’s his car?” The woman nodded at a beat-up sedan parked a few feet from them. “Fucking freak.” She muttered to herself, and pulled out the steak knife, heading towards the car with purpose.

It took her a few goes to actually pierce the tires, but once she had the hang of the angle, she moved around the car with a vengeance. For good measure, she crouched, and scraped the knife along the side of the door in a deliberate course.

**_COME BACK AND DIE._ **

_“You can’t kill. You won’t.”_

She looked at the words she had carved into the car, and heard Tom’s voice in her ear. A car was making its way towards them with definite purpose, and she listened to the woman’s relived sigh. Her skin crawled and itched, and she scratched at herself. The dark stains on her fingers brought her up short.

“Hey, kid, you want a ride?” The driver, another woman in pyjamas and glasses, was hanging out of the car. She looked vaguely familiar, and as they looked at each other, she registered recognition in her eyes too. “Wait – you’re Tom’s-”

“Alley Cat.” She interrupted, voice sounding irritated to her own ears. She chewed at her bottom lip, considering. Her skin was still crawling and shifting, and the shadows of the alley were looking inviting. But she was so _fucking_ tired. “And yeah. Take me to the station.” The driver gaped for another moment, but nodded. She stomped towards the car, and slid into the backseat, pulling her hood up over her head.

“Annie, hey – don’t go to sleep.” The driver gently nudged the woman – Annie – from where she’d slumped into the window. “You probably have a concussion.”

“ _Probably_.” Annie replied sarcastically, and lit up another cigarette. The driver sighed, and then looked at her in the rear-view mirror.

“Thank you.” The driver said quietly. “My name’s Mel.”

“24th and 42nd.” She said, eyeing her back. Yeah, she recognised Mel. If she pictured her without the glasses, and with a swipe of deep red lipstick and a gold dress, then she could place Mel as one of the regulars on that particular corner.

Mel nodded slowly, eyes widening. “Um, Marsha’s back at work.”

_Marsha._ In her tired mind, it took her a few moments to connect the name, and remember the bruised woman she’d offered cash to. “Okay.” She wasn’t too sure what Mel wanted from her, and it made her uneasy.

Annie started crying quietly. Mel’s eyes left her, one hand leaving the wheel to stroke Annie’s hair as the woman hunched over and sobbed. Another furious twist to her gut made her wish she had carved something else with the knife. They stopped at a stoplight, and Mel turned her attention to Annie fully, hushing and murmuring empty words of comfort.

And they were empty. Because what good did words do in the face of such violence? It was the lack of real horror or surprise that was really turning her gut. These women faced this regularly. Sex and brutality were their lives.

And no one cared. Not really.

There was a reason Annie hadn’t wanted to call the police, there was a reason they weren’t driving to a hospital.

Quietly, she slid across the seat and out of the car, shutting the door softly behind her, and darted for the sidewalk. The bright white neon of a 7/11 made her vision go spotty for a moment again, and she ducked thankfully into the shadows of the side-street beside it, resting in the shadow cast by a large block of flats. From where she stood, leaning against the wrought iron fence, she could see Mel looking around in confusion, the light gone green.

The subway wasn’t too far, but she missed her stop, falling asleep in the cheap, filthy seats. She didn’t think she could muster the strength to walk back, and so she waited another forty minutes for a train back. It felt like the longest journey of her life, walking up the back stairs to the roof. The bucket that collected the runoff from the pipes was freezing, and her hands went numb as she scrubbed and scrubbed. The blood was hard to remove.

The pigeons were mercifully silent. They seemed to sense her black mood, her drained state. The sun was starting to rise when she curled up in her pile of blankets. Tom had long been asleep and hadn’t stirred.

Under the covers, she ran her finger over the flat of the knife, and felt blood on her hands.


	7. The Call

“She’s a _kid_!”

“You think I don’t know that? Look, just… just ask, okay?”

“I don’t know, Mel…”

She was growing bored with eavesdropping. The two women; Mel – who she had recognised immediately – and a vaguely familiar looking brunette, had paused at the junction of the street corner to smoke and gossip. It hadn’t taken her long to realise Mel was telling the other girl about _her._ It had been a little bit of an ego stroke at first; Mel was being very liberal with several embellishments to the story of the altercation of two nights ago – but then Mel had started not-so-subtly hinting for the other girl to _ask_ something.

And she couldn’t shake her own curiosity.

She unfolded from her curl around the bar of the fire escape, and swung herself over the railing. She dropped, landing with a thud atop the lid of the dumpster beneath her. Her landing made the two women flinch, Mel letting out an aborted scream, as they both whirled to face her.

“Good evening.” She greeted, and jumped to land in front of them. Mel’s glittery eyeshadow was smeared a little, and for a moment she thought the other girl’s makeup was similarly ruined, when she realised the darkness around her eyes were bruises. “My ears were burning.” She continued, looking away as if she hadn’t noticed, as if her gut hadn’t begun to churn again.

Mel blinked, clearly at a loss for words. The other girl though, face a strange mixture of sceptical and desperate, stubbed out her cigarette and stepped towards her. “Is it true?” she asked bluntly.

“Which part?” She hoped she sounded casual. In her back pocket, the knife seemed to be burning an accusatory hole into her skin.

The girl took a shaky breath, loud with her restrained nervousness, even as the city pumped with life. “The part where you kicked his ass, and he _stayed down_.”

She couldn’t help but look at the bruises again. It was clear that the heavier patches of makeup across the rest of her face and neck were clumsy attempts at hiding more. “It’s true.”

“Ask her.” Mel whispered, nudging the other girl forwards. The girl blinked and stared and breathed, and Alley stared right back. “Ask her, Kelly!”

_Ask me._

The knife in her back pocket burnt, and her skin began to prickle.

_Ask me._

“Y-you’re just a kid…” Kelly stuttered, still with that desperate, _hopeless_ look. “You-” she paused, and instinctively, her breath caught too. _Ask me._ She could see it, visually, the second Kelly decided to ask. “My boyfriend.” She said, a little helplessly, hands fluttering to her face nervously, before settling back on her hips.

“He hits you.” She said. Kelly nodded, and Mel took a long drag of her cigarette, casting a look over her shoulder, back at the street, at the silhouettes of the other girls, at the endless stream of traffic.

“I tried. I _tried_ to leave! I really did.” Kelly pressed her lips together, shaking her head. “I tried…” again, she did the nervous twitch between her face and hips.

She nodded. “I believe you.” She wondered if Kelly had been forced to explain herself, _prove_ herself to someone before.

“The cops- they didn’t- they just left me with him.” _And there it was._ Kelly sounded wounded, and she tucked her hands in her pockets as her body sang with the prickling feeling of _need._ “I don’t have anything… I can’t pay you.”

_Pine and frost and blood-_

“Address?” She spoke loudly, trying to startle the odd sensations away. _Don’t shake anything loose._

Kelly burst into tears. She was forced to awkwardly embrace the rattled girl, trying to stretch up on her tiptoes to embrace her better. Mel quickly came to her rescue, and handed her a slip of paper. On it was Kelly’s address, one request and a name.

“Thank you.” Mel whispered, meeting her eyes over Kelly’s shoulder as she patted the crying woman soothingly. She nodded, and slipped past them both.

* * *

Kelly’s apartment stunk.

It smelt like cheap cigarettes, cheap perfume, cheap beer and cheap takeout.

She hadn’t had any trouble getting in. They were only on the third story of the apartment block, and she had been able to jimmy open the simple lock on the window. It was dark inside, the only light coming from the open window, and a small digital clock on the nightstand.

But she had gotten used to the dark, and it wasn’t hard to make out the sprawled figure on the double bed.

Silently, she slipped from the windowsill to the floor, bracing herself with a palm flat to the carpet, holding herself still. The snores emanating from the bed continued uninterrupted, and so she straightened. Snuffling from the kitchen, animalistic and quiet, made her change course.

She stepped over a pile of crushed beer cans, around a threadbare armchair, until her feet hit tile. The small dog sleeping on a single, ragged blanket, perked up at her entrance, and before she could stop it – began to yap loudly.

“ _Shhhh!_ ” she hushed the dog furiously, darting towards the white-furred Maltese and scooping him up as he squirmed and barked. From the other room, the snoring stopped, and her heart skipped a beat.

“Shut the fuck up!” A heavy set of feet hit the floor, and she turned, still clutching at the dog, as Ralf Walsh stomped into the kitchen. The light flickered on. His face, set in a scowl, went through a series of contortions and emotion as they made eye contact. “Who the fuck is you?” Slowly, she set down the dog again. It kept yapping, bouncing around her feet. “What the fuck you doin’ in my place?” his voice was growing in volume, and it only served to excite the dog further, and it gambolled happily towards Ralf. “Shut _up_!” Ralf turned his ire on the dog, and kicked at it. She blinked, gut twisting, skin tingling. The dog whined, and limped out of sight. Ralf advanced on her. “You have five sec-”

Quicker than she thought herself capable of, she had the knife between them. “You’ll be leaving Kelly alone.” Ralf’s eyes widened, travelling between her face and the blade. Then, he began to laugh.

“ _Kelly?_ That slut sent _you?”_ He actually doubled over with the force of his mirth, but when he straightened, his eyes were glittering with a darkness she could recognise. She had seen it in the eyes of Mr. Lee, in the eyes of the man in the alley, had heard it in the laughter of the man that had-

“You’ll leave her alone.” She repeated, gritting her teeth against the feeling of frost, the dangerous teetering sensation racking her core. “Or-”

He grabbed at her. She wasn’t expecting it, and he caught a fistful of her shirt. He shook her, drawing her close to his face, forcing her to her tip-toes. “Listen, you little fucking bit-” She slammed her forehead into his face gracelessly, and he grunted in pain and released her. She danced away from him, watching as he wiped at the trickle of blood coming from his nostrils. Her own head was a little tender, but it wasn’t enough to dull her senses.

This time, when he reached for her, a snarl twisting his face, she avoided him. This time, when she levelled the blade at him, it was no longer just a threat, and she lashed out at him. It went tearing into the flesh of his forearm, but she wasn’t able to keep her grip on it, and he wrestled it out of her hand. He had a tight grip on her wrist, squeezing tight enough to hurt, and she twisted and bucked, trying to get away from him.

He was yelling, so loud she was surprised there had been no reaction from the neighbours. Then she remembered Kelly’s bruises and understood. _Cowards._

Her other fist was free, and though it was her less dominant hand, the punch she landed upon his cheek was enough of a surprise that he let her go. She didn’t back away this time, didn’t give him anytime to get his bearings, and landed a solid kick to his sternum. His yelling cut off abruptly, and he stumbled back, winded.

Again, she advanced, and again, and again, until he was slumped against the fridge. _Cowards. Cowards. Cowards._

His eyes were already swelling shut by the time she stilled, body crying out for rest, legs trembling slightly. She crouched over him, thighs protesting the movement, and gripped his chin with shaking fingers.

“Leave her alone.” She whispered to him, and imagined his face with the twin black eyes she had given him. “Leave her alone, or next time, it’ll be Manfredi’s men with me too.” He twitched, a low, frightened noise escaping him.

Manfredi. _Shit._ She didn’t know why she had used his name. But it had worked – Ralph was trying to nod, desperate to assure her of his understanding. The thought of New York’s largest and most infamous crime family tended to do that for people. It was impossible, in the dirt that she and the other undesirables and criminals lived in, not to know the name Manfredi.

James Manfredi held the current position of power, lived in the best suite at the Hilton when he wasn’t at one of his mansions, and regularly flexed his power over the city for simple enjoyment. The family’s riches and influence stretched back generations, and she’d heard a rumour that they had once been entangled with SHIELD and had _still_ escaped with their empire unscathed.

Tom had cautioned her against them. She knew that he had borrowed money from one of their loan sharks, back in the years just after his return from the war. She had also seen the stump on his foot, where his smallest toe had once been.

She tried to ignore the pit of nerves that was forming in her gut, instead heading into the next room to collect the dog. It had fallen asleep again, perhaps too used to the sounds of combat to notice. It made her feel sick.

* * *

“Marvy!”

Kelly burst into tears again, and she watched as the woman sunk to her knees on the cool tile, the little dog rushing towards her. Kelly sobbed openly, seemingly enjoying the way Marvin was slobbering all over her, yipping and barking.

A hand settled on her shoulder, and she tensed and spun. Mel’s wide eyes met her own, and she dropped her hand from her back pocket. The knife was gone anyway. “Are you alright, kid?” Mel asked tentatively.

“Yes.” She said. Mel frowned slightly, her glasses slipping down her nose a little. She looked right back at the older woman, unsure what she wanted. “What?”

Mel’s mouth twisted for a moment, hand rising again and hovering in the space between them for a moment. “You just- did you want to sleep here? It’s late…” Mel’s apartment was tiny, and already housed Annie, sleeping in the second bedroom when she had arrived. Kelly’s things were next to the couch and there was a pillow and blanket on the sofa. “It’d be cramped, but I don’t mind sharing the bed, really. Or you can have the chair-”

“No.” She cut Mel off, some old impulse making her soften, “Thank you.”

_“I don’t want it! It’s yucky!”_

_“Ally!” Her mother is cross, a furrow between her perfect brows, and her cheeks are coloured with a faint embarrassment. Guilt blooms in her young stomach, and she lowers her head under Felicity’s gaze. “Where are your manners?”_

_She looks up, meeting the eyes of their elderly neighbour over the bowl of soup she’d been served. “I’m sorry Mrs. Jones, but I do not like this. No thank you.”_

_Mrs. Jones seems to be more amused than offended, and Felicity sighs. “I swear she’s usually well behaved, Helen. She seems to have left her manners at home today.” Felicity says pointedly to her, and another wave of guilt tamps down on any impulse to kick up more of a fuss. She hates when her mom is upset with her-_

“Are you sure?” Mel was speaking still, but she felt the shuddering loosening of her tight hold, and took a large step away from the woman, panic starting to bite at her. “Kid?”

“I need to go.” She said, and pretended she couldn’t smell pine and blood. Mel started towards her again, and she flinched back. It made the woman halt in her approach, and she took advantage of it, turning and heading back towards the window she had entered through.

She didn’t think she could stay a moment longer, not when Mel was looking at her with that warm concern. It was too familiar and too overwhelming.

* * *

Tom was still awake.

She could hear him moving around in the tower, could see the orange tendrils of the lamp light extending from the holes in the door. She paused, curling her fingers into fists and feeling the way the split skin over her knuckles stung.

He began to cough; loud and wetly. For a moment, she thought it would pass, but as the breaths he was catching in between the hacking came shorter and shorter, she threw caution to the wind. She hurried into the tower, throwing the door open. Tom was hunched over the tiny table, face screwed up with the shuddering coughs, and she hurried towards him.

“Are you okay?” She braced him by the elbows and eased him down. He grunted, waving his hand and sucking in a harsh breath. “Tom?” she pressed a cup of water in his hand, biting her lip as the fit seemed to settle down.

He eyed her blearily over the rim of the cup, wheezing slightly. “Where’ve you been?” He ignored her concern, and she followed his eyes to her swollen and bloodied knuckles.

She tucked them under her armpits and avoided his gaze. “Out.”

“Fightin’.” Tom said bluntly, and eased himself off the tin wall. They both winced at the sound of his joints popping painfully. “You joined a club?”

“What?” She shook her head, bemused. “No.”

“A gang?” Tom reached out, quicker than she could avoid, and caught her by the chin. He pushed back her hood, and turned her face into the light. She knew he was looking at the blooming lump on her forehead, at the fading black eye and healing cut across her cheekbone.

“No! Geeze-” she shook him off and stood back.

Tom’s eyes grew grave. “Ah.” He hummed, and she narrowed her eyes at him. She didn’t like the knowing on his face. “Have you been… _helping_ people, Alley Cat?”

She felt exposed, going hot and cold in a flash of nervousness. “I don’t- I just…” she trailed off, unsure what answer he wanted. “Look, it won’t happen again.”

Tom tilted his head, those cerulean eyes sharp like broken china. “Why not? Are you very hurt?”

“What?” Alley blinked at the man, more confused than anything else. “No, I’m fine.”

“And do you regret helping these people?”

Alley was not sure of much; but she was certain that whatever guilt she carried, it was not for helping the women. She lowered her head. “No.” It came out a low mutter, as if it were something shameful.

“What was that? Speak up!” Tom barked at her, and she jerked up to meet his eyes. She conjured all the frost and all the steel she could, and willed it to strengthen her spine and harden her gaze.

“No. I don’t regret it.” Whatever Tom had to say, whatever he would do – she would weather it.

For a long moment, they just looked at each other. And then Tom smiled. His silver fang glinted in the lowlight, and it made his chapped lips crack, but there was a genuine pride in the gesture. “Good, then.”

“G-good?”

Tom coughed again, and waved a hand at her. “Yes. Now go on and get cleaned up. You must be tired.” Though it was well-past the hour that they would normally retire, Tom stood with a sudden vigour. She stared, and it made him frown again. “Go on! Get to it!” She scrambled to her feet at the order, hurrying to get ready for bed.

As she burrowed into the nest, listening to the sounds of the city waking beyond the tower, Tom took a seat at the table, and pulled his mending kit towards him. She would have asked him what he meant to do, but the sound of his off-key humming, and the warmth of the tower pulled her into oblivion.


	8. The Job

“Hey, kid!”

There was a man calling her.

Alley Cat froze where she stood, sinking low over the lip of the building to watch him. He was too well dressed for this part of town, and he was standing in the mouth of the alley with his face turned to the sky.

“I can see you up there! Hey! I’m talkin’ to ya!”

It was as if he had been…waiting for her. Alley berated herself for not noticing him earlier. She dug her fingers into the brick of the roof, and wondered if she was fast enough to get away without him catching her.

“Listen – Alley Cat, is it?” The man was tall, with dark hair and too-white teeth. She could see them flashing as he smiled wide and fake up at her. He was beginning to catch the attention of passers-by, and she grit her teeth. _He didn’t belong here…_ “My boss would like to have a word with you! Does the name Manfredi mean anything to you?” Panic, ice-cold and all-consuming, made her stomach drop to her toes. _Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit._ “C’mon, kid – don’t make me call the cops.”

Because he could – Manfredi was so powerful that even the cops couldn’t touch him. They could touch her though, they could bring her in and find out who she was, and then she’d be a sitting duck in the system. Alley knew she couldn’t ignore a summons from the man whose power she had abused without permission. She had been a fool for not thinking it would get back to him.

She swung herself over the roof, ignoring the man’s aborted cry of alarm, dropping lightly to the fire escape a few feet below. She let herself drop to the next, and then to the next, until she was right above his head. She paused there, eyeing the long coat he was wearing and trying to work out if he had a gun. The man grinned, and opened his coat to flash her the soft sweater and pants he was wearing underneath. _No holster, no weapon._ “I’m not here to kill ya, kid. Jimmy don’t do business like that.”

“What does he want to talk to me about?” Alley did not mirror his friendly tone. “I won’t use his name again, okay?”

“He wants to talk to you in person.” The man eyed her up and down, nose wrinkling in obvious distaste. “So, hurry up.” Then he turned and strode towards the black car idling on the curb. He opened the door, courteous as a footman, and then beckoned her. “ _Now,_ kid.” Alice swallowed her rising dread down, and reluctantly followed him into the car.

She cast one last look back to the street, hoping that somehow, someone who knew Tom had seen her leave. _At least he’d know where to collect her body._ The morbidity of the thought barely registered.

The car was cool, clean and plush. The leather upholstery felt like butter, and she was unable to resist the urge to sink into the seat. There were small bottles of water in the doors, and a collection of wrapped mints in the centre console between them. Silently, as the man snapped something in Italian to the driver, she began to pocket the bottles and mints, wishing she had a large coat to stow them in.

They were driving into the nicer part of the city, and she watched as the streets grew cleaner and the buildings newer. Soon enough, they rolled to a gentle stop in the parking garage of one of the largest hotels in the city. All around them were Mercedes and Ferraris, BMWs and other models and makes worth more than houses. She got out without being told, hurriedly shoving the last of the water bottles down the front of her pants.

“This way.” The man was waiting for her by a discrete elevator, and as the doors slid smoothly shut behind her, she felt her heart begin to pick up again. There was no escape, the walls inlaid with gold, and polished until they were like mirrors, and the faint pleasant jingle of elevator music seemed perverse compared to the fear making her chest tight.

The elevator doors opened onto the largest and most beautiful room she had ever seen. The large suite was decorated to mimic the opulence of Versailles, and everything dripped with gold and crystal. The fabrics were all velvets and satins, and just looking at the plush chairs made her back ache to relax.

Standing before the giant decorative fireplace was a man not much taller than her, and yet when he turned around, she felt her heart skip a beat. There was a blackness to his dark eyes that reminded her of an oil-slick; sticky and deadly. “Right on time, Harry. Excellent, excellent.” His voice was smooth and cool, and it made her hair stand on end. Harry – the tall man who had fetched her – inclined his head, and left the room. Though she felt nothing for him, Harry had been the most familiar thing about the room, and she couldn’t help but look after him. It did not go unnoticed by the man by the fireplace, and he laughed at her. “Don’t fret, he’ll be back.” She clenched her jaw, and forced herself to meet his eyes. “Well, well…” he smiled, all teeth and no substance. “You’re smaller than I thought you’d be.”

“So are you.” She blurted before she could help herself, slapping a hand over her own mouth in horror. Fear made her go cold.

James Manfredi, _the_ mafioso, the most powerful man in New York, stared at her for a moment and then _laughed._

She swallowed thickly, slowly dropping her hand from her mouth to watch him warily. He finally sobered, clutching at the gilt mantle to steady himself. When he looked at her again, there was a glint of amusement in his dark eyes. “You _are_ a bold little thing, aren’t you? I heard what you did, what you said, and I wondered; are you brave or just an idiot.” He seemed delighted, clapping his hands together, “And so adorable too, with those big eyes,” She frowned, unsure where things were going. “Perfect, really…” He appeared to be thinking aloud now.

She bit her tongue, tried to keep her mouth shut, but she couldn’t help it; “What are you going to do to me?”

Manfredi blinked. He meandered away from the fireplace, towards a platter of fruit that looked like jewels. She watched him pluck a large ruby-red grape from the vine, and toss it nonchalantly into his mouth. “It isn’t what I’m going to do to you, so much as what I am going to do _for_ you. Or, well, you for me.” He nodded towards a small table topped with glass. There was a brochure atop it, a museum brochure. It was open to the middle spread. Alley inched towards it, trying to keep the table between her and Manfredi, but when she caught sight of the image, her curiosity took over and she took the final steps closer.

The main and current exhibition of the museum was, according to the brochure, the Peacock Pin. It was a hairpin, inlaid with jade and sapphires the most perfect shade of blue she had ever seen. Even in the picture it seemed to sparkle enticingly, and though it couldn’t have been any bigger than her palm, she could tell it was worth more than she could imagine.

“I want it.” Manfredi was blunt, and she startled at his soundless approach. He was staring at the picture of the pin with ill-disguised desire. Without warning his gaze snapped to hers, and she was pinned. “And you are going to get it for me.”

* * *

Alley tugged down the hem of the school dress she had liberated, and wished that she could have worn tights to combat the freezing wind. The museum towered before her, an intimidating façade of washed brick and limestone off set by the occasional promotional poster for kid’s weekends and a large advertisement for Coca-Cola. There was already a group of students meandering at the base of the stairs, far too many for the one harried looking teacher to properly control. As she watched from her spot on the street corner, a couple of boys broke away from the group, squabbling amongst themselves. As the play fight turned physical, one of their scarves dropped to the ground. Moving quickly, Alley darted for it as the wind carried it towards her. _Yes._ She grinned to herself, winding the scarf around her neck and ducking her head as she meandered towards the back of the group. She fell into step in between a pair of giggling girls and a boy clutching a book, and the beleaguered teacher’s eyes slipped right over her.

It was… _easy-_

Alley dropped her hand behind her back and made the sign of the _corna_ just as Tom had taught her – lest she ever be in a position unable to touch wood. She shouldn’t taunt fate like that. She knew better. She shadowed the children closely, gathered one of the worksheets from the teacher, head lowered, and as the group meandered off into smaller teams, she flitted towards the bathroom.

There, she stowed the scarf, took off the school dress and unrolled the pink skirt she had hitched up underneath. She untied her hair, tugging it down around her face, and fixed the light sweater she had been wearing beneath the dress. In less than a minute, the schoolgirl was gone, and a young child of indiscriminate age remained. She wandered, casual, though she had begun to sweat. It was a cold, anxious damp, trickling in beads down her spine.

The sapphire was being kept in the lower levels of the museum, in a display case, surrounded by cameras, ready to be unveiled to the public that evening. Manfredi had assured her that there would be no guards stationed outside the viewing rooms, that museum officials were assuming that lack of public knowledge and their impressive surveillance system would keep any potential threats at bay. Manfredi had said they wouldn’t expect it – they wouldn’t expect _her._

Somehow, impossibly, the halls were clear. The art was uglier down here – though something told her it meant it was probably more valuable – and the air was cool and sterile. All too soon she arrived in front of a non-descript white double-door, marked with a sign that declared it _CLOSED TO GENERAL PUBLIC._ Nausea bubbled up in her gut, and she took a deep breath as her heart picked up with a sudden fervour. This was it. _This was it._

* * *

“Ah, AC.”

Manfredi greeted her jovially, though his eyes were already shining with that lusty greed. Alley Cat decided not to comment on the nickname. Her body was still singing with a rush she had never felt before. “Well?” Manfredi prompted her, impatient.

Bold, she headed towards the bowl of fruit and picked up a large peach. She bit into it, and the juices ran down her chin. The taste was indescribable. Manfredi let out a low expletive and took a threatenening step towards her. The Alley Cat of a day ago would have trembled, would have made a hasty retreat – but _this_ Alley Cat just smiled, and nodded to the envelope she’d dropped soundlessly atop the side table. Manfredi’s eyes flew wide, and he darted for the package.

The glittering hairpin fell into the palm of his hand in a glorious dance of sapphire and emerald sparkle. It did not seem out of place in the opulence of Manfredi’s rooms, and Alley Cat found it hard to tear her eyes away. Manfredi was similarly transfixed, cradling it like a newborn.

“Oh my… my, my, my…” He hummed to himself, running a finger over the largest sapphire that made up the suggestion of the peacock’s body. “Oh, this is- this is _very_ good.” He finally looked at her, and her fingers stilled on the apple she had been about to tuck in her pocket. He barked a laugh, “Take what you like, Alley Cat!” he gently returned the hairpin to the envelope, and then strode towards the mantlepiece. “I must admit, I had my doubts – you hang around with that dirty bum Thomas, don’t you?” She bristled, but he didn’t seem to notice, “But you have proved yourself, my girl! Goes to show that the company you keep needn’t keep you down.” He tossed a small bundle towards her, and she fumbled the fruit to catch it.

It was a wad of dollar bills. She scanned the amount, her smugness fading to jubilance. _Money? He was-_ “You’re paying me?” she blinked at the man, who just laughed again.

“Of course – for your assistance and your silence.” He pressed a hand to his heart with a smile, but the edge of the threat was there in his dark eyes. “I believe in positive reinforcement.” She nodded slowly, the adrenaline rush fading in wake of his statement, and the sobering reality of the dirty money in her hands. Her hesitance must have shown on her face, because his smile dropped. “Keep it, Alley Cat, and just remember I know how to find you. I can find _anyone._ ”

_I can find anyone._

Slowly she met his eyes, and forced her very best smile to her face. “Thank you, Mr. Manfredi.”

“Call me Jimmy, kid.” His phone began to ring, and he flicked a dismissive hand at her. She bobbed her head, and when he turned to answer his mobile, she hastily shoved the money and the rest of the fruit into her pockets and made for the door.

_I can find anyone._

A distant chilling laughter echoed briefly in the back of her head, and she felt frost on her skin.

* * *

Tom was recounting the money for the third time as she finished her story. The furrow between his brow had only gotten deeper, but clearly the sight of all the cash in front of him was enough to still his warning tongue.

Without a word, he separated the money into three piles. The smallest he handed to her, and she felt her own scowl begin to develop as she watched him pack away the other two. “Tom-”

“You were lucky, girl.” He cut her off, finally meeting her eyes. His watery blue eyes were unreadable. _“Too_ lucky.”

“Tom – it’s fine. No one noticed – and they _won’t_.” He stood, picking up the satchel he only wore when he was going on an errand. “And, look – it’s _my_ money-”

Thomas whirled on her, teeth bared. “It is _his_ money – and the more you have the more he owns you.” Alley’s heart stuttered at the sheer venom behind his words. He turned away, dismissive once again. “Now you take what I’ve given you and spend it as you see fit; I need to go take care of some things.”

Alley felt a hot bolt of anger. She wasn’t some silly child. She could make her own decisions; she could make her own money now. “Fine.” She snapped, and reached for her own bag, and shoved roughly past him. Tom stumbled slightly but said nothing. She didn’t look back as she headed into the night, even as the harsh sound of Tom’s hacking coughs began to ring out from the roof.


	9. The Party

The days were getting colder and darker, and the nights worsening further.

For Alley Cat though – it wasn’t a problem.

After her and Tom’s disagreement, she had returned home ready to swallow her pride – after all, he was right. Accepting money from such a dangerous man was asking for trouble. To her surprise, he had presented her with – and she had no other word for it – a suit. The days he had spent awake and working made sense to her now; he had created it by hand. It was thermal, insulated, and in some places on her torso, reinforced with thin plates of Kevlar he had obviously torn from some abandoned motorcycle jacket. It covered her from neck to toe, a patchwork of different fabrics and textures, ranging from denim to satin – but all in unerring, unforgiving black, stitched together with a silver thread woven from thin steel around wool. It looked like the light glittering off wet pavement, the glimmer in a dark pupil, the faint scattering of the stars trying to push through the polluted night sky.

“An appropriate outfit for an Alley Cat. An Alley-Cat-Suit.” He had said proudly, presenting her with the garment with a smile so reminiscent of her father that she had been forced to sit down. It had taken her a few days to actually put it on, but once she did, she knew she would be hard pressed to take it off. It fit perfectly, it protected her, it allowed her to stretch and run and jump as she saw fit. She wore a mask now, too. It was just a beanie she had cut holes in and tugged over her face, but it worked.

The girls – the homeless girls, the working girls, the lost and forgotten girls – knew to find her now. With the mask, they didn’t have to struggle with the guilt of her age. With the mask, she was just Alley Cat. Alley Cat wasn’t the police, but these days she was getting pretty good at being just as much of a deterrent. And Alley Cat never said she couldn’t help them.

Manfredi had laughed at her the next time she had gone to see him at his summons. She had felt, for a moment, idiotic – wearing her patchwork suit in his gold rooms – but he had sobered, though the speculative look in his eyes hadn’t faded. She stole for him twice more; once, a collection of ruby jewellery, and then a stack of case files from the living room of an NYPD detective. That night had been her closest call – she had been on her way out when the light had turned on, and a boy not much older than her, dressed in Paddington-printed pyjamas had appeared in the doorway. She had stopped because she had been suddenly struck by a wave of irrational anger and jealousy at how he had whispered he was “ _gonna call his daddy.”_ The heavy creaking of feet on the stairs had spurred her out, but it had been far too close.

Tonight, however, she knew there would be no such mistakes. She’d been planning this one for a while now.

The private party at the large mansion of Sir Thain was supposed to honour his birthday, but Alley knew it was also an excuse for him and his rich friends to display his assortment of artefacts collected (stolen) from native cultures around the world. Sir Thain fancied himself an explorer (colonizer) and tonight, Alley Cat fancied herself a liberator.

Unfortunately, such a venue meant she couldn’t wear the Cat-Suit, and she was forced to expand her recently supplemented Disguise-Closet. The Closet was in fact an old suitcase overflowing with the various clothing and wigs she had picked up over the months since she began working for Manfredi. Acquiring her disguise had also required a disguise, because she could hardly walk into a boutique dressed in her day clothes. Or, technically, _night_ clothes. It had been hard enough convincing the sales assistant to serve her at all, as an unaccompanied minor.

Alley scratched absently at her belly beneath the flouncing pink dress she had painstakingly protected during the long journey to the estate property. It was, she supposed, a pretty dress – layers and layers of tule, creating a princess-like collection of skirts. The modifications – the additions of several large pockets – were invisible beneath them. She looked entirely unlike herself, which was the entire point.

Ahead, the wide double doors were open. Men in suits wore gold cufflinks and gold watches, and when the women weren’t wearing gold too, they were dripping with gemstones. She watched them filter in and out for a while, eyeing the two men in red suits that were standing on either side of the door. They seemed to be functioning as both security and butlers. As she watched; a man and women both in shades of blue were greeted, and one of the men took the fur stole from the woman’s neck, whilst the other checked a list. _Right. A guestlist._

While she would have preferred to sneak around the side, perhaps scale a window and break in, something told her that the only safe way in, was through those doors. She gently flexed and stretched her fingers, a few joints popping as she did so. Tom had taught her a few things about dealing with people, if and when she was ever caught out of the shadows.

_“Don’t forget, girlie – nothing is as convincing as pure confidence. If you are sure you belong, then people will fall in around you. People are sheep.”_

People are sheep. People are sheep. People are sheep.

It ran like drumbeat through her as she walked – trying hard not to march, as if to war – hamming up the childish bounce to her step. As she drew closer, she could see the very second the butler noticed her. His brow wrinkled, and he squinted at her. She ignored him – she was a spoilt rich girl tonight – and flounced past him. Well – tried to at least.

A hand grabbed her by the shoulder, stopping her with a jerk. “Hey, kid-”

“Get off me!” Alley shrieked shrilly. She shook him off and planted her feet. “My mommy is in there.” She jabbed a hand impatiently at the swirling crowd of unfamiliar faces beyond the double doors.

“Who is-”

Alley blinked hard and squared her shoulders. _Here goes_ ; “MOOOOOM!” she began to wail, her eyes welling up spectacularly, face reddening. Mutters broke out behind her, and several faces turned to look at her with equal parts indignation and sympathy.

The butler swore under his breath and took a large step away from her. “Fucking kids – _go!_ Just- go on.” He shooed her inside and she swallowed the tantrum the second she was through the doors, hurrying to get out of sight before he had time to think about it for too long.

The entry way opened to a grand foyer, bracketed by a double staircase. Already, she could see plinths and display cabinets dotted at regular intervals throughout the room, and something told her that upstairs – where more guests were sipping at glasses – there would be even more to look at.

The case closest to her displayed a row of arrowheads in varying stages of decay, the small tag telling her they were ‘ _neolithic bronze arrow heads, Sudan.’_ Cool, but it didn’t really catch her eye. Besides, she had no idea where she would or _could_ sell ancient arrowheads.

She wandered through the rooms, noting the absurd amount of champagne with faint satisfaction. With any luck, the majority of the guests would be too tipsy to realise she was out of place. She was, however, getting hungry. Alley decided she could afford to eat first, and began to search the crowd for one of the red suited men carrying platters of appetizers. She spotted an abandoned, half full tray of what looked like little bits of bread and tomato, sitting atop a tall table. She reached for the platter, fingers nearly closed around a morsel, when hands clamped down on her shoulders.

“Well, well, well! What’s this then?” The voice was jovial, and she looked directly up and behind her to see the smiling face of Sir Thain himself. He was wearing a white suit and a fake smile. He was old, but had clearly endeavoured to hide it; his face was unnaturally unlined and stiff with botox. He had his thin grey hair slicked back into a pompadour. “Are you children still hungry in there?”

 _Children? In there?_ She tried not to let her confusion show, instead letting out a sheepish giggle that made him pat her on the head like a lap dog. “Sorry, Mister Sir Thain.” She burbled, affecting a lisp. He chuckled with that same false merriment; steering her with some force towards a closed door she had passed on her quest for food. She snatched one of the tiny breads just in time, shoving it whole into her mouth. Sir Thain whipped open the door, cast an irritated look around, and then shoved her in. She whirled with a protest, but the door clicked shut, a second click telling her that it had just been locked from the outside.

“Fuck!” She swore, resisting the urge to kick at the door.

“Thas’ a bad word.” The lilting voice of a child much younger than her came from behind her, and she whirled to find an assortment of kids spread around the large room. The child that had spoken looked to only be about five, bespectacled and dressed in a hilarious green velvet suit. He was pouting at her, clearly very disturbed by her language. There were a pair of twins; identical girls in identical lilac dresses, sitting primly in an armchair large enough to hold them both. There was a pudgy boy who looked to be about eight, mouth smudged with chocolate, sitting at the table spread with various foods. A tiny girl with bright eyes, drowning in her too-big yellow tulle dress blinked at her from her seat at a chessboard. As she watched, the girl sent her opponent a distressed look.

The boy sitting opposite her turned around to look at her. He was the tallest, perhaps even a little taller than Alley herself, and dressed in the cheapest suit there. He had dark hair and dark eyes, and to her horror – she _recognized_ him. And something about the way his eyes were narrowing told her she wasn’t the only one.

“You-”

“I’m Alley!” She blurted loudly, interrupting his suspicious tone. “Hello.”

Most of the kids ignored her, but the tiny girl gave her a wave and the pudgy boy grunted a greeting before he went back to eating. The boy – the policeman’s son, she realised – stood up. She watched him warily as he crossed the room to her. “Hey, look, kid-” she began, and he scowled.

“I’m eleven, and _you_ don’t belong here.” He hissed.

Alley scowled at him. “Yeah, I _know_. You think I want to be in here?”

“No – I mean-” He cast a furtive look around the room and leant closer to her, “You were in my house. I _saw_ you.”

 _Damn it._ He had, in fact, caught a glimpse of her face before she had the sense to tug her mask back down. Alley squared her shoulders, drew herself up as much as she could, and met his eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Then, she turned away from him, and eyed the keyhole. She listened to his indignant huff of air behind her. He was clearly trying to think of something to say, and she reached into one of her pockets to get out her little lockpicking kit. She had better things to do than wait around with some cop’s kid. When he realised what she was doing, he squeaked and tugged her away. “Hey!” She cried, shoving him off her.

“You can’t do that!” he said firmly, stepping around her so he was between her and the door. She ground her teeth, and balled her hands into fists. “I’m putting you under citizen’s arrest and then when the party’s over I’m going to get my dad and-” Alley had heard enough.

With far more restraint than she usually had, she balled up her fist and punched him in the gut. He gasped, and crumpled, tears already welling in his eyes. She reached over him without a second look, fiddling with the lock with practiced hands until she heard – _click_. “Yes!” she cheered quietly, and pushed the door open gingerly. She stepped over the boy, and tiptoed into the hall. Thankfully, the guests seemed to have converged on the first floor again, leaving the upper levels empty enough for her to make it out of the room and down the hall unscathed.

She had wasted enough time now. She had to go soon, and she hadn’t even found _one_ thing she liked. Trying not to stomp her feet, but really wanting to, she headed down the hall for the gallery at the end. She could see display lighting down there and was hoping there’d be something – _anything._

“You can’t go in there.” She jumped at the sudden voice behind her, whirling to find the boy _right behind her_ , eyes still teary, but face set in determination. “It says ‘no guests’.” He pointed at the small sign next to the door.

“Shouldn’t you be in prison with the rest of the kids?” sure, he was a year older than her – but she wasn’t going to tell him that.

“I told you, you’re under citizen’s arrest.” He said sullenly. “And if anyone should be in prison, it’s _you._ ”

“Whatever.” She tossed over her shoulder, and marched into the room.

The sudden indescribable flux of _something_ almost stopped her dead.

Like a magnet, her eyes were snapped to a small display case at the back of the room, where two innocuous objects sat under the pale-yellow lighting. One was a small ivory figurine, an oblong shaped head, the features strangely square, the other was a small gold bell. It had a wood handle, and was intricately carved with a series of symbols she couldn’t read. The little plaque read; _Ivory Idol, Unknown, Kenya_ and _Gold and Oak bell, Unknown, Tibet._ Her feet seemed to have a mind of their own, as she was slowly drawn towards the case.

There was something about them, particularly the bell, that was stirring a strange craving in the pit of her gut. They seemed to glow in a way the other artefacts didn’t, and as she got close enough for her breath to fog the glass, she swore she could hear a distant humming.

The boy had shadowed her closely, and in the reflection she could see him frowning at her, hands balled into fists at his side. As she reached for the latch, voices sounded from the hall.

“Of course, old friend – I set aside the things you asked after.” It was Sir Thain, sounding greasy and a little greedy.

“Thank you, Joseph. The Sanctum is passionate in our quest for recovery and restoration.” The second voice was a deep near-drawl. She could only hear the click of Thain’s shoes, and reached for the boy. His eyes went wide as she fisted her hands in the cheap nylon of his dress shirt, and tugged him down with her. Half-crawling, they made for a tapestry, hung slightly away from the wall on display. Breathing short, she tugged the boy in behind her. To her surprise, he made no noise, eyes wide with similar fear, drawing his legs up to his chest and staring at her with huge eyes. She lifted a finger to her lips and he nodded in silent confirmation.

“There are several other pieces in a similar vein I think you might be interested in-”

“No. We are only here for them.” A third voice; brusque and accented.

There was a faint sigh, presumably from the second man. “We do appreciate everything – don’t we, Wong?” His voice curled with faint amusement, and Alley almost smiled at the grunt from Wong.

“Of course. Forgive me, but I must attend to the guests – I think I saw Lady Ashari going green far too close to the Persian rug room.” Thain clicked out again.

There was a long beat of silence, broken only by a faint rustling. Then, the second man spoke again. “Ah. The Idol and Bell of Ikonn, just gathering dust.” He sighed theatrically, “breaks your heart, doesn’t it?”

“And the bank.” Wong replied with the same amount of sullenness. “Tell me again why we couldn’t just take it under Sanctum authority?”

“Because we aren’t savages, Wong – and if we want to know the whereabouts of any other Artifacts, keeping Joseph happy is our best bet. No one sees more illegal imports then he does.” The man explained, with a faint tone that suggested that he had been pushing the argument for far too long.

“Hmph. Still don’t know why I had to wear a suit.” Wong grumbled. The first man laughed. “Oh, wow – Stephen, look at those Mongol daggers.”

“What did I tell you?” Stephen sung, and Alley felt a sudden lurch of impatience that spurred her around the tapestry to peek into the room.

There were two men; one broad and square, with black hair and an expression of reluctant awe. The other was tall and lean, with chestnut hair greying at his temples and immaculately groomed facial hair. Both of them seemed occupied with the daggers in the case across the room. Unable to understand the impulse, she stood. A hand clamped around her ankle, and she whirled to look at the boy. He was still hidden, shaking his head desperately. She ripped herself free, and took a delicate, wary step towards the display case.

Inside, the Idol and the Bell gleamed, inviting.

Her hands were silent and steady on the casing, and the well-cleaned glass came off without a single squeak of its hinges. The faint humming got suddenly loud, and she paused, eyes darting to the distracted men. They didn’t seem to hear it, and with a faint frown, she picked up the idol. The humming died out. Swallowing down a faint unease, she stowed the idol in her pocket. Gingerly she lifted the bell, pulling out a bit of cloth she would stick inside to make sure it didn’t ring – but despite her slow and sure movement, the bell suddenly gave out a single pealing chime.

She froze, as the men’s heads whipped around. The tallest – Stephen – looked from her, to the bell, to the empty plinth and back again. “What are you-” Alley darted for the exit. The bell began to ring with her sudden movement and the humming began to start up again. “Stop! Don’t let it ring!” 

A sudden flare of impossible orange filled the room, and Alley’s mouth dropped open as she realised it was coming _from_ Stephen’s palms, and when he shoved his hand in her direction, a swirling pattern of orange light burst into being in front of her. She resounded off it like it was a solid wall, dropping the bell, which seemed to fall and ring for a weirdly long time. It rolled to a stop against the wall, and Wong ran towards it.

Alley, of course, had no actual intentions of stopping – and now she had seen Stephen’s trick, she was ready for it. She rolled beneath the orange swirling design and made for the hall. When another burst of orange appeared, this time at knee height – as if to trip her – she leapt instead. She used it like a launch pad, and sprang through the threshold. She cast a quick look over her shoulder as she ran, catching Wong hauling the cop’s son out from behind the tapestry. Then Stephen stepped out of the door, eyes narrowed and hands outstretched again. His mouth moved, and his fingers glowed yellow, and Alley stumbled as what felt like ropes caught around her ankles and wrists. A tugging, summoning feeling almost made her turn right back around.

She grit her teeth and surged forwards.

Another flare of orange at the top of the staircase blocked the stairs, and she was forced to jump up onto the railing. The guests below were gasping as she slid down the railing at a break neck speed, their faces blurring. Suddenly, somehow, Stephen was in front of her again, and the room fell away – all of the guests suddenly clones of the tall man.

“Who are you?” he barked, and all the clones clapped their hands together in unison. A sudden unnatural quiet fell – and Alley’s breath sawed loudly.

“None of your business.”

Stephen’s eye twitched, and he drew a strange pattern in the air with the tip of his index finger, and it glowed a deep, ominous red for a moment before it floated towards her. She was unable to avoid it and watched in horror as it disappeared _into_ her. A deep, hot feeling, like someone had put live coals in her chest made her tremble. “Who are you, and what do you want with the Idol of Ikonn?”

Her name – her _old_ name – almost spilled from her lips, but she bit her tongue. _How did he do that?_ She had not slipped up in months, she had barely thought about her _old_ life in weeks, and here it was, all coming back- 

“Fuck off, old man!” She spat at him, and with her anger came some sort of lucidity. As the scent of blood and pine rose in her nostrils, the Idol a suddenly heavy weight in her pocket, the exit took shape; the doors appearing mistily, the phantom-like figures of guests coming in and out of sight. With a snarl, she lifted her leg, reared back – and kicked Stephen squarely in the balls.

For all of his fancy tricks, he was still a man.

Alley paused for a moment to revel in his bulging eyes and pained whimper before she was sprinting for the rapidly solidifying exit. The guests’ voices came into volume again, and she could catch cries of outrage, of confusion – she could feel eyes on her.

She fled the mansion; running in her little flats until she couldn’t, kicking them off, and tearing her feet to shreds on the rough gravel.

_She had been seen._


	10. The Room

Alley clenched her teeth, trying to keep the bone-deep shivers at bay. Being so still for so long in the snow was never a good idea – but Alley Cat was determined to stay where she was. At least until she had unravelled the mystery that was Doctor Stephen Strange.

For all Tom’s reluctance to help her find the murderers that had driven her to him, he had been willing to help her track down the man that had nearly unravelled her. Of course, she hadn’t told him _why_ exactly she wanted to know about the former neurosurgeon. She had told Tom she wanted to make sure he wasn’t going to tell the police about her. In actuality it was something harder to explain.

She told herself it was because – as he had inadvertently admitted at the party – Strange had connections to private collectors with special goods unknown to the government or local law. She tried not to think about the weird pull that drew her to him, much as she had been drawn to the Idol and the Bell. She still had the Idol – hidden where even Tom wouldn’t find it. Something had stopped her from telling him, from enquiring as to its value at Ernest’s shop.

Something had brought her here today; shivering in the mouth of the alleyway opposite a jeweller that Strange had disappeared into. Today he had been alone, cutting a solitary figure through the snow, head bowed against the wind. Alley had felt a pang of loneliness watching him, something resonating through at the sight of his footprints in the snow.

_She missed her-_

No.

Alley curled her hands into fists, and tried to think of something else.

The jeweller’s door opened and Strange emerged again. For a moment, he paused, eyes narrowing. Through the light flurry of flakes, Alley watched him slowly scan the street. She shrank back behind the dumpster, heart pounding. After a moment, however, he turned on his heel and began to stalk back down the street. Waiting a beat, Alley slipped from her hiding spot and started after him, careful to keep herself behind the cars on the street as best she could. They crossed the street in tandem, but just as she cleared the cross walk, she saw his shoulders stiffen and his head begin to turn. Alley threw herself behind the closest parked car and sucked in hasty breath. The cold burnt her throat, and she slapped a hand over her mouth to keep from coughing. She sat there for two minutes before she decided to look again.

Strange was nowhere to be seen.

Alley frowned, scanning the empty street for any evidence of his passage. It was as if he had just vanished into-

A bright flash of light; white and blue toned exploded from the mouth of the lane across the road. _Strange._ Instinctively, she knew it was him. She’d seen him do things she couldn’t explain, and she wanted to see _more._ Alley hurried across the road, a sudden surge of nervous energy sending her stumbling over the sidewalk, legs breaking into a run seemingly without her control. 

The scene down the side street was like nothing she had ever seen before. Well – the footage of the Battle for New York she had studied in middle school came pretty close.

Strange stood with his back to her. The dark sweater, coat and pants he had been wearing were gone; in their place, a sweeping cloak of deep red swirled around his person like a living thing, and he wore strange blue robes beneath. Stranger still were the four things – _robots?_ – shooting bolts of white-blue energy from the long, thing gun-like weapons in their clawed grip. They were tall; almost as tall as Strange, made out of a silvery metal so pale it was almost white, and vaguely human shaped, but instead of a head, a large globe with a green camera lens sat on top of their shoulders. Alley’s jaw dropped.

He was putting up a good fight – his orange shields were up, but as she watched, two of the robots turned and scuttled up the brick wall like spiders, the weird, disjointed flexibility of their limbs archaically creepy. Distracted, Strange turned to throw a bolt of dark purple that appeared from his closed fist. In the opening he had left, one of the lasers from the other robots caught him in the chest and he stumbled and fell to one knee. A dull horror descended upon her at the sight of three drops of blood on the white snow.

Alley turned and grabbed the nearest thing she could; the lid of the dustbin was covered in snow and as she threw it towards one of the robots on the wall, the white powder flew out like a sparkling cloud. It resounded with a clang off the side of its round head, and the sound made the lasers stop. 

In eerie synchronicity, all the heads of the robots turned to regard her. The large green camera-eyes focused all at once upon her, clicking and swirling. The back of her neck prickled; and she dived for the ground. Laser bolts darted over her, and she rolled, feeling a faint heat on her exposed face that told her she had been inches from disaster. She scrambled upright as one of the robots from the wall jumped down, and slid again, gaining speed and traction on the snow as she skidded between it’s lanky legs. One of the other robots’ lasers caught it in the chest and it fell with a whine of dying machinery, green eye going dark.

A cold, hard grip closed around her neck. Alley was lifted suddenly from the ground, the long pronged claw of one of the robot’s hand spanning the entirety of her throat. She couldn’t even scream as its grip tightened. The robot hauled her up to its eyelevel. This close, Alley could see the machinery whirring behind the light of its eye. She bucked, head getting light as her airway closed. Through blurring vision, she watched as the light expanded, and began to scan over her face. It tickled and heated her skin.

“Let the girl go.” Strange’s voice came from behind her, a low tremulous darkness staining his tone. Even as speckles of blackness began to obscure her vision, Alley strained to look at him.

“ **New target acquired. Extermination imminent.”** The robot’s voice sounded like a GPS’ mechanical recitation, like it’s English was a programmed response rather than a natural language. Alley could hear her heart in her ears, thundering louder than anything else. The world darkened around her, and her hands fell limply away from the metal around her neck. Her last thought was not so dark; _her family were waiting._

* * *

She sat up with a gasp.

“What the fu-”

Alley turned at the loud outburst, finding Strange crouching beside her, recoiled and staring at her as if she was a ghost. Around them, snow was beginning to gather on the blacked remains of the robots. She swallowed thickly, the scars on her chest itching and niggling at her. She rubbed at her chest through her coat, and met Strange’s eyes.

“How did you do that?” He demanded suddenly, narrowing his eyes at her. “What spell did you use?”

“W-what?” She blinked, confused. How long had she been unconscious.

“Your heart stopped. You were dead.” Strange was blunt, suspicious.

Alley shook her head, “No. I couldn’t have-”

“I checked your pulse.”

“You must’ve made a mistake.” Alley told him, challenging.

Strange scowled at her. “I’m a doctor, kid, I think I know what I’m talking about.”

“Well…” She looked down at herself and flexed her limbs. She felt fine. Better than fine. The faint aches and pains from her late night before were gone, and she felt rested, as if she had actually slept more than four hours. “Explain this then.”

Strange’s frown only deepened. “I _can’t_.” A silence fell between them, and Alley looked back at the robots.

“What were they?” She asked quietly. The phantom touch of metal around her neck made her shiver.

“Eyebots. They travel dimensions and galaxies to wipe out any magic they can find; object or user. Usually they’re not so persistent.”

 _Eyebots? Magic?_ Alley’s head throbbed. “Magic.” She repeated dumbly, staring at Strange again.

“Yes.” He said, no trace of amusement or falsehood in his face. “Magic.” As she watched, the corner of his red cloak rose into the air of its own volition, crooked itself and waved at her. Her heart skipped a beat, and she scrambled rapidly away from it. It drooped, like a dying flower, and Stephen batted it down. “You’re scaring her.” He muttered, _to_ the cape. It swished around him, like a toddler throwing a tantrum.

“What the fuck.” Her voice wavered audibly, and she swallowed down a wave of nausea. “I don’t understand- why did they- it tried to kill me!”

“I wonder why that might be?” Stephen’s sarcastic tone made her shake her head. He tilted his head at her, still with that vaguely irritated look on his face. “Kid – I don’t know _who_ or _what_ you are, but you are very clearly drawn to, and imbued with, the Mystic Arts. And it didn’t just try. It succeeded.”

“No, it didn’t!” Alley couldn’t help the volume of her voice. She was frightened now, truly frightened. Her breathing was picking up, so hard and fast her head was beginning to grow heavy again. _It didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense. Magic? Interdimensional-wizard-killing-robots?_ She had to get back to Tom. She had to get back to the Tower. She had to-

Strange reached for her, brow furrowed, and she was too slow to avoid his fingers. He tapped her once squarely between the eyes and her world went white.

* * *

When Alley woke up again, she didn’t know where she was.

That alone was enough for panic to begin surging through her limbs again, but caution held her still. Tom always stressed upon her the importance of surveying her surroundings, and so she forced herself to sit up slowly.

She was on a low ornate cabriole couch, upholstered in deep red velvet, wood well-polished and sturdy. The room itself was small, the ceiling low enough to tell her she was in some kind of attic space. The walls were wallpapered in a slightly lighter red, and patterned with small gold shapes that seemed to shift and move as she looked at them, making her eyes water. Most of the furniture was hewn from the same kind of wood, but there were two bookcases on the opposite wall that looked like Ikea furniture. A small side table and a lamp sat beside an armchair next to the cabriole, a desk was pushed against the far wall under the round window there, and on one of the large shelves that lined the wall beside the door, a candle was burning with an unnaturally still flame. She got up quietly, looking down at the large Persian rug beneath her feet. It muffled her footsteps, and she crept towards the door.

It was locked.

Alley reached into her pocket – only to realise she had been stripped of her coat, leaving her in the Cat Suit. _Shit._ She kept her lockpick-kit in her coat, along with her only loose change and half a protein bar she was going to have for lunch. _Lunch._ At the thought of it, her stomach rumbled. She didn’t even know what time it was. There was no clock in the room, and the window was shuttered closed. The shutters were dark green, and though she tugged and heaved, they wouldn’t budge.

A sense of doom made her eyes prickle with tears.

Clenching her jaw and willing the embarrassing emotional reaction away, she swivelled, eyes falling on the heavy looking bronze lamp. She picked it up, and ran at the window, raising her makeshift battering ram.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Alley startled at the sudden voice, dropping the lamp and whirling. Though she had not heard it open, Strange was standing in the open doorway. He was regarding her with a cool expression, and was back in his dark shirt and pants. Not a hair was out of place, and it looked as if the fight in the alley had never happened.

“You’ve kidnapped me.” Alley accused, balling her hands into fists. “Let me go or I’ll-”

“You’ll what? Call the police?” Strange sounded amused, and Alley went quiet. “I didn’t think so. You are here under observation; until Wong and I can work out _what_ you are, you cannot leave.”

Alley ran at him. His eyes widened, and taken by surprise, he took an automatic step back. Alley may have been out of her depth, but she had been out of her depth before, and she _was not going to let this Houdini-wannabe keep her-_

A sharp hot pain ran through her body, and she resounded off thin air, unable to make it out of the doorway. She fell back, letting out an involuntary snarl. Strange was watching her with a cool amusement that made her blood boil, and she got to her feet. This time when she approached the doorway, she held her hands out first. The moment her fingers made contact with the invisible barrier, the burning began again. She grit her teeth and _pushed._

White hot pain raced up her arm, but still she pushed, watching as a faint gold light appeared at the point of her contact. Though it hurt, though it felt like shoving at a brick wall, she pushed on. To her surprise, with a feeling like breaking a vacuum seal, the very tips of her fingers began to break through. The skin was bright red as if it had been burnt, and she watched in horror as her knuckles began to blister.

“Stop.” Strange barked at her. “You’ll die before you get through.” She ignored him, _pushing-_

Strange stepped back through the doorway and shoved her away from the barrier. She fell again, but this time a wave of exhaustion made her eyes slide shut for a beat too long. “Stupid girl.” Strange muttered, crouching before her, and grabbing her hands brusquely. He examined them, and she hissed at the touch on her raw, blistering fingers. Her head was heavy, and every time she blinked it was an effort to open her eyes again. She forced herself to stay awake, focusing with intent on the first thing she noticed.

It was the stark scars running the length of Strange’s fingers that caught her eye. They were a raised, angry red, but smooth enough to tell her they were long healed. At the sight of the scars, her own began to itch again. Strange reached beside him, and out of thin air, a small bowl appeared. It was filled with a white cream, and silently he began to spread it on her fingers.

She was too tired to protest, too tired to scoot away from his foreign touch, too tired to address the way everything was making her feel.

After another slow blink, she opened her eyes to find she was back on the couch. She couldn’t even bring herself to be surprised anymore, watching as the bowl blinked back out of existence. Strange was sitting in the armchair, turning something over in his grip. It was her lockpick. “What’s your name?” He asked, this time in a slightly quieter voice. Alley remained silent. “I can make you tell me.”

“No, you can’t.” Alley thought back to the spell he had used on her back at Thain’s mansion. And it had been a spell, she realised.

Strange scowled at her. She annoyed him, she realised, with a distant satisfaction. “Are you human?” he asked.

She couldn’t help but laugh at the question. “Uh, duh…” Her hands had stopped hurting, and as the pain receded, a little of her energy returned, along with a sharp stab of hunger. “Are you?”

“Obviously.” He snapped. “How long have you been attuned to the Mystical?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. How long have you been Harry Potter?”

“Harry Po-” Strange sighed heavily. “Long enough to know how to turn you into a toad if you don’t start cooperating.” It was meant as a threat, but Alley laughed again.

“Cool.” She settled back in the couch. “So, if you’re not letting me go, can I get a sandwich?” She had meant to sound casual, flippant, but as she spoke, her stomach let out a loud growl. This time when he looked her over, it was with a brief flash of pity. It made her angry. “Or you could just let me go.”

“I can’t do that. I am duty-bound to monitor Magickal threats.” Strange stood. A surge of desperation sent her lurching after him. She grabbed at his wrist, looking up at him and adopted her very best pleading expression.

“Please – I’m not a threat! If you let me go, you’ll never see me again! A-and, I’ll return that Idol!”

A glimmer of interest sparked in his eyes, and she doubled down on her earnest, pitiful expression. But then he shook his head, and shook off her grip. “No. You stay here. I’ll locate the Idol myself.” And then he was gone, sweeping from the room in a manner that told her he was used to having his cloak on his shoulders. The door closed quietly behind him with a definitive click.

Alley sagged back into the couch. The room was still, so quiet she could hear the soft patter of snowflakes on the roof. Silently, she bowed her head, and let out the tears she had been holding at bay.

_I’m sorry, Tom. I wasn’t careful._

_I’m sorry, Mom. I couldn’t save you._


	11. The Wizard

“Breathe this in.”

Smoke curled from the shallow stone basin thrust under her nose, the grey plumes rising towards the high ceiling lazily. Alley was once again in the large empty space Strange called the Ritual Room. It was bare of anything but a large circle of white crystal that was imbedded in the oak floorboards.

Usually, it was just her and Strange, but today their routine included Wong. Wong was consulting a large tome bound in dark leather, frowning as he looked between her and pages. Obediently – because there was no real alternative – Alley leant over the basin and inhaled the smoke. She began coughing immediately, the thick acrid smoke making her throat close. Between her painful hacks, she glared at Strange balefully. He watched her impassively, but as she bent double with the force of the coughing fit, a glass of water appeared beside her. She reached for it, but another tickle in her throat caused her to cough and gag as a ball of phlegm flew from her mouth and landed between them. To her surprise it was a pale pink colour. The painful need to cough stopped immediately.

Wong let out a loud, frustrated groan that made her jump. He glared at her pointedly as he shut the book with a definitive snap. “There is no ‘pink’ in the book.” He told Strange.

Strange tilted his head. “At least we know she’s not a daemon.” Wong’s jaw jumped.

Alley grinned widely at him. “Sorry, Wong!” She said cheerily, and he growled something under his breath, tucking the book under his arm and striding from the room. The large double doors swung shut behind him. She turned to Strange. “Do you think I can drive him to an aneurysm?”

Despite the disapproving look on his face, his lips twitched. “No. I’ve tried before. He just gets more…”

“Boulder-like?” Alley offered, taking a sip of her water.

His lips twitched again, but he shook his head and got to his feet. “Come on, kid. You can have a sandwich, then there’s something else I want to try.”

Alley followed him to the kitchen, the only other room she was allowed to enter. The kitchen was at odds with the rest of the Sanctum; modern and sleek, rather than old and ornate as much of the rest of the large mansion was. Like every day that had passed since Strange had kidnapped her, she sat at the far-right stool at the marble counter, and waited for Strange to pass her a sandwich. It was always peanut butter and jelly, and it was never cut. Then, he would sit in the far-left stool and watch her eat. When she finished, he took her plate and it disappeared. Alley always wondered how much energy it took to magically wash dishes. She never asked him how he did it.

Today, however, they didn’t return to the ritual room. They didn’t go back up to the attic either.

Unease prickled at her as Strange led her down a corridor she’d never seen, past a set of closed stone doors, carved with the same symbol on the skylight in the attic. Something tugged at her gut as they passed, and she was unable to hide the way her eyes lingered. “Keep it moving.” Strange said, steering her away by the shoulder. They passed through a grand foyer, complete with black and white tiles and a large double staircase much like the one at Thain’s mansion. To her surprise, they began to head up the stairs.

As she crested the staircase, she became aware of a distant thrumming. It was similar to the hum that she had heard from the Idol and the Bell, and instinctively, she turned her head towards it, feet guided by an inexplicable force.

It took her a few moments to realise Strange was no longer beside her. She paused, suddenly uncertain, turning to look at him. He was watching her, face impassive, hands folded in his navy sleeves. The door in front of her was closed and as she tried the handle, she half expected it to be locked. Astonishingly, it opened.

The humming increased until it was almost deafening.

Inside, the room was filled entirely with artifacts. She could see swords, armour, hats, a skirt, a statue of a dragon, several locked boxes, a plethora of vases and crockery, the Bell – so many things, it was as if she was in museum’s storage room. She stepped over the threshold, head swimming with the sound, with the pull.

“You can sense it. The Magicks here.” Strange wasn’t asking a question, but she nodded anyway. His voice seemed very far away. “Tell me what you are feeling.”

Alley was moving again; she couldn’t seem to help it. “It’s-it’s like…I can _hear_ them. They want- I want to-” She shook her head, “It’s like magnets.”

She rounded the top of the stairs, passing a large round window, a set of ribbed locks, another case. There was something different now; a soft siren’s call, higher than the demanding low tones of the other artifacts.

It was-

_The song she could never quite remember, the touch of a hand to her brow, the scent of her mother’s skin. It was the sound of her sibling’s laughter, the proud curl to her father’s smile. It was all the warmest things she knew. Had known._

She had paused in front of a glass cabinet. Inside, a rusted half-circle of metal sat latent and _wanting_. She was crying, she realised belatedly, hot tears sliding down her cheeks and blurring her vision.

_“I will protect you all night, like the moon.”_

_“And then, when it is morning, I will protect you all day, like the sun.”_

“But you didn’t.” Alley – _Alice –_ whispered back to the phantom voices. Her head was splitting, and the scent of pine and frost and blood was back. Everything was coming back. “You’re not here, and I am alone.” Strange was saying something – but she couldn’t focus, couldn’t hear over the lullaby.

The rusted artifact called to her.

Alley Cat, Alice, whoever she was, reached for the cabinet. As if in slow motion, she watched as the glass exploded outwards, a thousand glittering shards refracting impossible light through the room. Strange was yelling, but he was lost to the sound of _voices_ , countless female voices, crying out. The rusted metal was no longer there; in it’s place, a brilliantly gold collar emblazoned with a lion’s head shone. She had a moment of sudden clarity; the metal burnished so clean she could see her own reflection.

**Whatever was happening was meant to happen.**

* * *

Stephen should have known.

The girl stood calmly in the eye of the small hurricane around her. The whole room was trembling, the Artifacts shuddering and twitching in their cases, and around the girl, the glass of the shattered case swirled and danced. Heart in his throat, he threw another half-hearted summoning charm at her. As with his last four attempts, the purple-hued charm bounced ineffectively off the vortex. 

He should have never brought her here.

The Aegis of Bastet had been at the Sanctum since before his arrival, gathering dust and rust in the very back corner of the Artifact Room. Resistant to any magic of men, even the women of the Order couldn’t make much of a dent on the ancient energy surrounding it. From what they could tell, it offered protection from magic, as well as produced magic of its own. Of course, none of the Scholars or Sorcerers had been able to activate the abilities they assumed would be associated with the Ancient Egyptian deity.

Until today. Until this tiny slip of a girl.

Stephen tried to move forwards again, but this time, the Cloak tugged him back. “What?” He snapped at it absently, eyes on the girl’s hand. It was raising slowly towards the Aegis, and he watched in fascination as the rust flaked off, revealing previously unseen symbols and hieroglyphics. The Cloak pulled at him again, this time hard enough to take him to the far end of the room.

And not a moment too soon.

With a pop like pressure dropping; a surge of _blackness_ exploded from the Aegis and the glass vortex burst outwards, sending shards flying. He watched helplessly as the Aegis _consumed_ the girl. Her body was taunt, cast in what looked like shadow. And then everything went quiet.

The girl dropped like a stone to the floor.

The Artifacts were still once more, the unnatural storm gone.

_He shouldn’t have- shit, was she dead? Again?_

This time, his Cloak let him hurry towards her.

She was sprawled at the foot of the cabinet, eyes closed and breathing shallow. He felt something in his chest relax at the sight. Although – considering the impossible miracle in the alley, he wasn’t sure if her death would have lasted for long anyway. He crouched beside her, attention diverted from her still face to the rest of her. She was in a short-sleeved t-shirt, and so he was able to see her thin arms. Underneath her skin, it was as if something was _wriggling_ , threads of black and gold – not veins, but something similar – was winding over and through her. Carefully, pulling a protective charm over his own hand, he touched her arm. As if it could sense him, the threads faded into her olive-toned skin. Around her neck, something sparked brilliant gold, and he realised with a start that a necklace with a heavy pendant – _was that the lioness’ head?_ – had appeared. This time when he touched it, he felt a sharp pain shoot up his arm, despite his protective charm.

“Incredible.” He breathed. His voice seemed to rouse her; she took a deep shuddering breath and her eyes fluttered open slowly. She looked…different. It took him a moment to work out exactly what it was; but as her eyes focused on his face, he realised. The unusually bright green of her eyes was changed, threaded through with impossible gold. “Are you alright, kid?” he asked, leaning back as she eased herself into sitting.

“What- what happened?” She asked. He blinked; even her voice seemed different.

“Well…” He deliberated, “I think the Aegis…well, it seems you were chosen.” She looked uneasy, and he watched her flex her fingers. “How do you feel?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice was small. A faint frustration filled him. The breakthrough of centuries had just occurred – and it was because of a child too young to comprehend the magnitude of what she had done.

“Are you injured?” He tried again, eyeing the new smoothness of her skin. She still looked too thin; but at Thain’s party she had looked emaciated, and when he had taken her in, her face had been red and chapped from the cold and wind. “Do you still sense-”

“I don’t know, okay?!” Her voice had taken on a different tone, and she slammed her fists down beside her in a childish reaction to stress. The thud and crack of the wood splintering made them both pause. Where her fists had landed, the wood had completely given way.

_That is…interesting._

* * *

Alley stared at her fists.

_What was happening?_

A sudden loud noise behind her made her jump and whirl. It was a distinct scuttling that reminded her of the robots, and she was on her feet and alert in one smooth, impossibly quick movement. There was nothing there. It sounded again, and she searched the room, eyes zeroing in on the dark space between the beams of the roof.

There was a spider on the wood.

And she could see it clearly. As she watched, it began to move again, that same scuttling sound coming clearly. And now – she realised – she could hear _other_ things. That low thudding wasn’t her heart… she looked at Strange, eyes falling to his pulse point. She could _see_ the pulse at his neck, beating beneath his skin, the rush and bellow of air in his lungs, the thunder of his heart. Outside she could hear traffic, loud as if she was beside a formula one racetrack, and every snowflake – and it _was_ snow, she could smell the ice from here – was a drumbeat on the roof. She could see the pores in Strange’s skin, every grain of wood, the particles of dust dancing between them-

Alley slapped her hands over her ears and closed her eyes as the sensations built and built and built and built-

“ **What’s wrong?”**

Strange’s voice was impossibly loud, and she could hear Wong humming somewhere, and faintly, Beyonce’s Halo, and she could hear someone cough outside, and she could smell Strange’s cologne, and she could smell the jelly and peanut butter she had eaten and-

Something began to race up and down her body, a hot wave, a feverish sensation – and the overwhelming world faded away.

 _Strange must have knocked her out again_.

She wasn’t unconscious though. She wasn’t dreaming.

Slowly, she opened her eyes.

It was like seeing the world normally – albeit still with impossible clarity and focus. It was just less…overwhelming. And yes, she could still hear everything, but she was able to zero in on Strange’s heart again, the other distractions fading away. It was racing now, picked up into something like fear.

She looked at him, taking in his surprised expression. Just as she had zeroed in on the tiny spider before, she looked at herself in the reflection of his wide eyes.

Alley recoiled.

So did the small, reflected figure in black fur.

“What-”

“What-”

They spoke at the same time, Alley raising her hands in front of her face. They were – like the rest of her body – covered in what seemed to be a _pelt_. It was black as midnight, and she could feel its softness. Around her wrists, thin bands of gold sparkled gently, and she ran her hands down her front. There was another, thicker band of gold encircling her entire neck and finishing on her chest, and she traced the outline of the lioness head sitting in the centre of her collarbones. Another band wrapped around her hips, around her ankles. Her face seemed equally covered, but it had not glued itself to the shape of her as it had everywhere else. All she could think to explain it, was as if someone had stuck a lioness shaped helmet on her head. She touched the small ear nubs on the top of her head, stroked down the angled muzzle, tapped at the cat-eye shaped thin gold over her eyes.

“I don’t understand…” She said, noticing the new smoothness to her tone with an odd nausea. “What is this?”

Strange looked troubled. “Kid, you’re going to have to tell me who you are.” His tone was grave.

* * *

The pelt hadn’t gone away.

Alley sat awkwardly at the marble counter in the kitchen, trying to ignore all the competing scents coming from the fridge and pantry. Just an hour ago, she had been eating a sandwich and plotting her escape.

Strange was watching her.

She cleared her throat. Everything in her was screaming to keep her secrets. Tom was going to be so disappointed in her…

But she had to know.

She had to know what, _why_ , this was happening – and if the wizard thought her name was the key to understanding, then she had to- she had to tell him.

“I’m-” She tried, taking an anxious breath. As if responding to the panic rising inside her, she watched as the gold bands around her wrists began to widen, slowly sliding and solidifying up her arm. It only made it worse. “I’m- my name is Alice. Alice A-Akilah Tybalt-Nefertari.”

“Nefertari…” He repeated, looking at her with a sudden clarity. “Are you Egyptian, Alice?”

“Don’t call me that!” She snapped at him, irrationally angry at the sound of her name, hands tightening around the edge of the stool. Strange nodded slowly, and she realised she had broken through the leather cover. A few bits of fluff from the padded cushion drifted to the floor. _What was happening to her…?_

“What should I call you then?”

“Alley. Alley Cat is what T-” Alley shook her head, cutting herself off. _Shut up, shut up, shut up!_ She was being stupid – her fear was making her stupid, vulnerable. For the first time since they had gone into that horrible room, a faint amusement lit up Strange’s face. “What?”

He shook his head, rubbing his beard thoughtfully. “I have to do some research. I think – and I can’t be sure – but I think the Aegis has assimilated to you. I just don’t know why. Perhaps-”

His voice faded into nothing.

_The Aegis._

All of a sudden, she was not in the kitchen. All of a sudden, she was back under the Christmas tree, watching blood soak her carpet. A high, terrible laugh-

_“I want what you took from me.”_

_“Where is the aegis?”_

_“Bastet’s Aegis.”_

“Alley Cat?”

Alley looked up sharply. Stephen was looking at her, with a concern she had never seen before. A cold was settling over her, and with it, the warmth of the pelt – _the Aegis_ – faded. This time she was able to watch it; watching as the gold melted into the fur, the fur receding from her skin, up and away, until it was entirely gone, the thick gold at her neck gone too. It was as if it had never happened at all, but a necklace she didn’t recognize was sitting innocently on her chest. She lifted it, and it sparkled once in the light, like a conspiratorial wink. Alley dropped it.

“I’m feeling a bit tired.” She offered Strange a smile, affecting her best, most polite tone. “May I go and rest?”

He blinked, clearly caught off guard. But Strange was not Tom, and he wasn’t her father. He wasn’t even her friend – and he obviously had more pressing matters to attend to. She had no doubt the mystery of the Aegis was weighing on him more than anything to do with her. “Uh, yeah.” He said, and turned slightly to open one of his portals. The orange sparks were a now familiar sight, and she stepped towards the red papered room that appeared in the centre with a faint relief. “Alley,” She turned, looking back through the portal to Strange. He was frowning. “I will work this out.”

_“I will protect you…”_

Another empty promise.

Alley smiled at him, and felt the frost and tasted blood in her mouth. The portal closed, and she was alone in the room. Her smile faded, and she turned to the window. The shutters were still closed, but there was a new confidence coursing through her, and she remembered the way she had punched through solid wood and broken the chair, and flexed her fingers.

The shutters gave way like toothpicks, and she tossed them behind her, tearing them from their hinges. The window shattered with one blow of her fist, her hair blown back by the rush of icy air coming through, and she could see with her new, improved vision that there was a near invisible gold barrier like the one on the doorway.

Alley clenched her jaw, and shoved at the barrier. This time, the warmth of the fur was welcome, and she watched as the pelt swirled over her, forming a shield between her skin and the spell. All too easily, Alley climbed out of the window.

New York stretched before her, freedom and snow in her lungs.

_I’m coming home, Tom._


	12. The Frost

_“Just hear those sleigh bells jingling, ring tingle tingling too, come on, it's lovely weather for a sleigh ride together with you…”_

Alley could hear the tinny sound of the carol coming from the coffee shop half a block away, and resisted the urge to turn right back around. It was bad enough that Christmas decorations were covering the city as thickly as the snow, and everywhere she looked, people were _happy._

Christmas spirit…

She was cold; after the Aegis had faded from her skin, she’d been left in nothing but her jeans and shirt, and the snow hadn’t stopped. It was hard going, and yet, somehow, she knew she’d have given up if whatever had happened hadn’t happened.

She felt different.

More than the sudden increase of her senses was the _surety_ that was coursing through her. She knew instinctively she was stronger, faster, _better_ than she had been that morning.

And so, she pressed on.

The Tower was down-town, and by foot, normally it would have taken her hours, almost the whole day considering the snow, but no more than forty minutes later she was at the foot of the block. The alley was deserted, but the dumpster was still in place over the hidden exit door. Her light shove sent it careening into the wall with a loud crash, the metal denting where it hit the brick, teetering for a moment before it tipped over, spilling trash bags everywhere. She winced, trying the doorhandle with exaggerated care.

“Tom!” She called up the staircase, realizing after she had made it halfway up that she had no trouble seeing in the pitch dark. “Tom! I’m back!” An excitement stirred in her gut. She had missed him, had missed the Tower, missed the little stove, missed her nest of blankets – hell, she’d even missed the pigeons.

Alley burst out of the door, and sprinted towards the Tower. “Hey! Tom!” She sang, grinning at the thought of his disgruntled grumble as he no doubt woke from his sleep. The small rusting enclosure filled her with such a rush of longing that she almost stumbled, and she threw open the door with a bang. “Good morning, Tommy!”

The Tower was empty and as cold as the air outside.

Slowly, her smile slipped from her face. She stepped through the threshold, eyes drawn to a new hole in the roof that hadn’t been there before she’d left. It must have been brand new, because she’d been gone for almost two weeks now, and Tom wouldn’t have just left it like that. At least, that was what she tried to convince herself. The air inside was stale; and her and Tom’s scent was old on the clothing and fabrics.

_He must be running some errands._

Alley nodded to herself, resolute. She pretended not to see Tom’s errand-bag, still hanging on the hook.

She turned on her heel, shutting the Tower door behind her. Without Tom there, it felt like a tomb. She’d try Ernest’s first, she decided.

* * *

“Haven’t seen Old Ginger since before you dropped off the grid. Get in trouble with the cops did ya? Finally get caught stealing?” Ernest laughed at his own poor joke, his silver canine winking in the low light.

“Nothing that exciting.” Alley maintained her polite smile, trying not to let her growing frustration show. “Let me know if he comes by, okay?” She swivelled, heading swiftly for the exit.

“Hey!” Ernest shouted after her. Alley paused, half-way out of the doorway. She waited, question on her face. Ernest leant a little closer to the grimy window between them, and squinted at her. His discerning eye swept slowly over her whole body. “Where _did_ you go, Alley Cat? You look… different.”

Alley grinned at him; all teeth, no humour. “I was kidnapped by a wizard.” Ernest began to laugh again, and she left before he could question her further. Night was falling quickly, and she still had to hit another few pawn shop before they closed.

* * *

“ _I don't want a lot for Christmas, there is just one thing I need, I don't care about the presents, underneath the Christmas tree…”_

“FUCK YOU TOO!” Alley roared at the heavy metal door that had been slammed in her face, and turned to face the Applebees across the road, blasting Mariah Carey at unspeakable levels. She screamed wordlessly at the jolly looking Santa winking at her through the window, and turned to kick at the door of the secret speakeasy Tom had often frequented. The metal caved in underneath her foot, and she swore again under her breath.

_Another bust._

She shivered as a gust of icy wind howled down the side street, blasting her exposed skin with the pinpricks of frost. Angrily, she tugged the necklace out from under her collar, and stared at the lioness’ head. “What good are you?” she snarled at it, tempted for a moment to throw it to the ground and walk away.

She was about to leave for a nearby homeless shelter when a sudden hot sensation raced down her spine. Much like the strange siren call that had pulled her to the Aegis, something turned her head away and up, up to a nondescript window of the block of flats opposite the speakeasy. The curtains were drawn, but there was a light on. As she looked, trying to understand the impulse, a scream sounded.

It was a woman. And it was coming from the flat.

Alley was torn.

Before Strange, she had been Alley Cat on the streets. She had helped the women that made their home in New York’s underbelly as she did, and she hadn’t thought twice about it. But this wasn’t the street; this was someone’s home, and-

The tugging sensation again, and another scream – this time short and cut off.

Alley leapt for the fire-escape dangling a story off the ground. She cleared the distance easily, and hauled herself up the steps as another feverish wave flowed over her. This time, it was a familiar sensation, and she was only a little surprised to watch the black pelt cover her body.

“-Your fault! You fucking whore, you _know_ I don’t like him!”

She could hear a man, and two heartbeats, both raised with what she assumed was fear – the woman – and rage – the man. He was yelling, belligerent, and she could smell alcohol from outside the window. The woman was muffled, likely pinned, and Alley hauled herself up to balance with impossible poise on the tiny window ledge. _Take stock. Take in your surroundings. Take note of your opponent-_

Alley heard the cock of a gun and threw caution to the wind.

The glass shattered inwards with one blow, and she jumped through the window, landing smoothly in a low crouch. The faintly gold tint to her vision did nothing to dull the bright red splatters around the apartment. The man and woman inside were both looking at her; as she suspected, the pale, bleeding woman was pinned with a knee to her throat. The man, in a cheap suit, weedy looking and wild-eyed, was holding a small pistol to the woman’s head, but as Alley straightened, a righteous rage turning her blood to ice he lifted it with shaking hands to aim at her.

“Who the fuck-”

“Get off her.” Her voice came out a low growl. The woman had a bloody nose and several cuts on her arms, accounting for the blood splatter on the couch and tile beneath the window, but more worrying was the glassy unfocused sheen to her eyes. Alley knew what a concussion looked like.

The man pulled the trigger.

It was as if the world slowed down; an incredible clarity filling her as she just… _leant_. The slight movement of her torso was enough, and the bullet cracked into the brick behind her. Alley couldn’t help but turn to look at the hole in the wall.

“Huh.” She noted, and felt a slow smile pull her lips up. The sound of another bullet dropping into the chamber made her spin, and so fast it seemed ridiculous, she was upon him, wrenching his wrist to the ceiling, and the next bullet went off into the roof. It was easy, so very easy, to just _pluck_ the weapon from his grip. She could feel the weakness in his wrists and arms as surely as she could feel the unnatural strength in her own. “That’s not very nice, buddy.” She told him coolly and bumped her forehead into his. He went flying with a crack across the room, and she winced. “Whoopsie.” He didn’t move from where he was slumped against the kitchen sink, and she turned her attention to the woman beneath her. “Hey, lady, are you okay?”

“C-cat?” The woman slurred, blinking confusedly at her, and reaching weakly for the ears atop her head. 

Alley whistled lowly. “Damn, you’re really out of it, huh.” Again, she marvelled at how easily it was to pick up the woman, and she gently eased her down onto the couch, and picked up the house phone. “I’m gonna call an ambulance, okay? Do you have healthcare?” She wasn’t really expecting an answer, but looked at the woman anyway. She was wearing Gucci, and there was a glimmer of gold around her wrist that she recognised instantly as Tiffany. A part of her wanted to reach out and take it, but the way the woman was blinking owlishly and bleeding still made her stop. “Yeah, you have healthcare. Not sure about him, though.” She took another look at the obviously less wealthy man.

“ _911, what’s your emergency_?”

Alley took a seat next to the woman, gently patting her cheeks to stop her eyes from closing. “Uh, yeah, hi, I need an ambulance.”

“ _Okay, is the ambulance for yourself?”_ the operator sounded almost bored, and Alley briefly commiserated with her.

“Nope. It’s for a woman, mid thirties, multiple shallow wounds and one _serious_ concussion. Oh and her asshole boyfriend. Don’t know or care what’s up with him, but he is, um,” Alley turned to look at the man again. _Yup, still down._ “Unconscious.”

“Uh-” The operator stuttered slightly, “Wh-what’s the address? And what is your relation to the-”

“Apartment six I think, top floor of the apartment complex on the corner of eighth, across from the Applebees. And if you could hurry up, because I have something to do.” Alley hung up, and returned to keeping the woman’s head upright. “Hey, lady, what’s your name?”

“Sally. Sally Green.” The woman still sounded drunk, but at least she was able to answer. Alley felt a little unease settle. “Nice to meet you, what’s your name.” Alley smiled slightly as Sally extended her hand to the wrong side of herself. This one must have been _the_ professional of professionals.

“Name’s Alley, but you can keep callin’ me Cat if you like.” Alley sighed, and stood. “Can you stay awake for a few seconds, I need to make sure he’s not dead.” Sally nodded dutifully, and Alley vaulted over the couch to go and crouch over the skinny man. He was definitely breathing, and so Alley gave him a gentle punch to his gut for good measure. “Asshole.” She hissed at his slack face.

Though impatience thrummed in her bones, itching at the scars on her chest and making her pace the couch. She couldn’t leave though. Not until the ambulance came. She couldn’t leave Sally alone – and it was a weird mix of her own morals and a deeper, rooted feeling, much like the same sensation that had drawn her attention to the woman’s distress in the first place.

She could hear the sirens before she saw the lights, and turned to Sally. “Hey, looks like your ride’s here. Can you stay-” Alley broke off at the feverish sensation of the pelt receding from her skin. “No! No, no, no – what?” she backed away from Sally as more and more of her skin returned, feeling the mask beginning to recede. Outside, the ambulances had pulled up, as well as two police cars. She could feel the cold wind from the broken window, and turned frantically away at the sound of footsteps on the apartment block’s emergency stairwell. “Fuck’s _sake!_ ” Alley hissed at the necklace that had fallen back into place around her neck. Gingerly, she stepped over the broken glass, and maneuvered her way out of the window.

The ground below, blanketed in a layer of snow looked very far away. _How the hell had she managed to get up here?_ She could hear them on the landing outside the apartment, and knew she was out of time. Closing her eyes, Alley jumped from the window.

She landed lightly, with a soft thump of snow.

Gasping a startled breath, she looked around herself. No pain, no breaks, just her – standing in the snow as if she had been there all along.

She could hear the paramedics talking to Sally now, and only had a second of warning as someone stepped on the broken glass under the window. She propelled herself against the alley wall, pressing herself into the shadows and holding her breath. She could smell the aftershave of the policeman hanging half out of the window. _Don’t look down, don’t look down, don’t look down-_

After a long moment, the smell was gone and the glass crunched again. Alley let out a breath, and shrugged off the wall. She’d been here too long.

_She had to find Tom._

* * *

“ _Hallelujah, the King is here, given for all men. For today the holy son of God, is born in Bethlehem! Come now sinners and you saints, all peasants and all kings; and bow before the earth's redeemer…”_

There was a line around the block of the homeless center and she could smell the cheap turkey and salty gravy of the Christmas Eve dinner on offer. For a moment, she was tempted to slip in line, to warm herself with the dry food and body heat of the other desperate souls drinking up the seasonal pity offered to them. She turned away from the carollers wearing crosses and handing out rosaries at the entrance. That had always set her teeth on edge; the religious do-gooders thinking their own piousness was a gift to the less fortunate. _Not today, Satan._

Tom wouldn’t have been there anyway.

Tom didn’t like Christmas either.

Settling down further on the stoop she had dusted free of snow, she ran over the list of places she had already tried. She was running out of options, and no one had seen him. Despite herself, she began to feel a little helpless.

Tom would have told her off for it.

_You are never helpless. You are your own strength. You are your own solution._

How many times had he drilled it into her head? Probably as many times as he’d had to show her how to escape cuffs – that had been a skill she’d struggled to master.

So she pushed herself to her feet, blowing a little desperately on the tips of her fingers that were turning blue. _You are your own strength._ Alley avoided looking down at the innocent glitter of gold around her neck. She wasn’t sure how true that was anymore.

* * *

The city was quiet.

For a moment, she remembered the same eerie stillness of the last Christmas Eve; the way her world had crumbled and no one had done a thing about it, locked up in their houses with their happy families. No one – except Tom.

_She had to find him._

She was walking down the centre of the street when she heard it; fast, distinct footsteps. And they were gaining on her. For a moment, adrenaline flared within her, and she reached habitually for the knife she no longer had.

“Alley Cat!”

She whirled, and squinted at the figure fighting through the snow. “Marsha?”

Marsha’s thin lips split into a momentary smile, before her customary sour expression returned. “I thought that was you.” Her black eye was long healed, but she had holes in her tights, and Alley could smell the drying blood on her knees. They paused together in the middle of the road, and Alley tried not to let Marsha’s long, suspicious look over rankle her. “Where’ve you been?”

Alley shrugged. “Around.” She bit her lip, and swayed towards the older woman. “Listen, have you seen-”

“Alley.” Marsha’s voice was suddenly, terribly, gentle. “I’ve been looking for you. I know you’re looking for Tom.” Alley waited, hope lighting in her gut. Thank _god_ for Marsha! At least _someone_ kept tabs on- “Honey, I have some bad news.”

Alley blinked and smiled. “Do I need to bail him out again? That’s fine – I think I have some cash stowed somewhere-”

“No. Alley.” Marsha looked tired and sad, and Alley stepped back as the woman reached for her. “Tom is dead.”

She could feel her smile slip, could feel the cracks opening beneath her, could feel her head begin to swim with the things she shouldn’t, _couldn’t_ \- “What? No – it’s only been a few weeks, not even a full month. I _just_ saw him-” she cut herself off, snapping her jaw shut as her eyes began to burn. Marsha reached for her again, and Alley violently shook off her hands.

_“Tom had pneumonia…the first proper snow…not long after you left…he wanted you to know…”_

Marsha’s voice sounded very far away. Her heart was roaring in her ears, and it felt like a tide was rising. Tears began to run down her cheeks, suddenly and violently, and her breath hitched painfully in her throat as she struggled to keep control. _Don’t cry. Don’t fucking cry._

“Alley Cat _?”_

Alley looked up to meet Marsha’s wide eyes through a film of gold. She hadn’t even realised the pelt had returned. It wrapped itself around her; a tight, warm hug she didn’t deserve. She shook her head as Marsha took a frightened step backwards.

_Tom is dead._

* * *

It was well past midnight when the wardings alerted him to the person standing on the front door step.

Stephen sat up with a groan, his hands aching for a moment before he flexed and cracked his knuckles. His Cloak hadn’t risen from the hook it liked to sleep on, and he frowned. Usually it was good at predicting danger. The wardings flared again, more urgently, and Stephen grunted. “I’m going, I’m going…”

He toed on the purple fluffy slippers Wong had given him as a joke last Christmas, and clicked his fingers impatiently at the Cloak. Like a petulant child, it wafted over to him irritatingly slowly, and he snatched it out of the air when it got close enough. The collar slapped him on the cheek and he hissed in annoyance.

There wasn’t any sound from the front door, no evidence of whatever had disturbed the wardings, but he still paused for a moment to listen. _Nothing._

Stephen opened the door a crack, peering out into the pitch dark of the night. There was snow blanketing everything, muffling the usual city noise, and it was deathly still. ‘ _Twas the night before Christmas and everything was silent…_ he thought humourlessly. He sent out a probing charm, jumping as he registered the life form that was apparently _right in front of him._

As if she had sensed the charm – and perhaps she had – a small dark bundle unfurled from the bottom step, snow falling away from her dark hair and shoulders. Alice looked up to meet his surprised gaze. She was blue-tinged, red-eyed, and tears had frozen on her chapped cheeks.

Stephen hadn’t thought he would see her again.

He hadn’t been surprised to find her room empty, to find the window smashed and ward broken. Sure, he would have had to report her missing to the other Sorcerers, on account of the artifact that he noted with relief was still around her neck. She was a pain, she was a nuisance, she was a child that he had no time for, and yet as she stared at him silently, he found he couldn’t bring himself to turn her away.

Instead, he opened the door wider and stepped aside with a summoning jerk of his head. She stood, shivering violently, and wordlessly crept back into the Institute. As she passed him, he cast another probing charm. She wasn’t injured, but for the beginnings of hypothermia, but he could sense a dark tangle of sorrow and rage held in a tight snarl of emotion in her chest.

Stephen shook his head and told himself it was none of his business.


	13. The Agreement

There was a woman watching them.

Alley tried not to notice, tried not to let that all too familiar paranoia back in. She was safe now. She wasn’t recognisable. She was cared for. _Sort of..._ She willed herself to calm down as she grabbed a box of pop tarts off the shelf.

“No.” Strange didn’t even look at her from where he was squinting at their shopping list. “No junk food.”

Alley groaned. “You are so lame.”

“If wanting to keep you from scurvy makes me lame then so be it!” Strange hissed at her.

“I’m not a malnourished street urchin anymore!” Alley could feel the woman’s eyes on her again, and tried to lower her voice. It was hard. Something about Strange made her whiny. “I’m not gonna _get scurvy_ , old man!”

Out of the corner of her eye she saw the woman take a definite step towards them, and she reacted. With one small leap she had cleared the trolley, putting the metal frame between her and the woman and baring her teeth. She had frozen dead, caught like a deer in headlights and Strange finally turned to see what she had reacted too. He developed an equally struck expression and was silent.

Alley looked between them, a hypothesis forming.

“Stephen?” The woman asked tentatively, “um. I didn’t expect to see you...here.” She gestured lamely to their surroundings. Strange’s brow wrinkled but Alley thought the mystery woman had a fair point. She doubted the illustrious Doctor Stephen Strange would ever have been caught dead in a tiny WholeFoods in the middle of the night.

“Grocery shopping,” Strange said – a little dumbly, Alley thought meanly.

“Well yeah - I mean...” the woman looked between them with huge eyes. “Who is this?”

“This is um-”

“I’m the-”

They began speaking at the same time, turning to shoot each other identical scowls. For a moment, they spoke without words. Strange raised his brows almost pleadingly, and Alley tightened her jaw in a threat.

“Christine, this is my...Alice. I adopted her in Nepal.” Strange introduced, touching his chest a little foppishly.

Alley met Christine’s gaze with a dead expression. “नमस्कार, मेरो नाम एलिस हो।.” **_Hello my name is Alice._** She greeted dully.

“Oh, Stephen...” Christine seemed overwhelmed, one hand fluttering to her throat, her eyes suddenly glistening. “That is wonderful. Fatherhood...really suits you.”

Both Strange and Alley recoiled – Strange recovering first with a warning look at Alley. “Yes, well. I am kept on my toes.” His hand landed on her head, and he ruffled her hair. Alley resisted the urge to bite him. “Well, we’d better be off. It’s past this one’s bedtime.” He pinched her cheek, with a faux fond look. This time Alley didn’t resist – and dug her nails slightly into his side under the guise of shying into him. He let out a low hiss of pain.

“Oh goodness – don’t let me keep you!” Christine was smiling fondly at them.

Strange nodded goodbye and began to move away. Alley frowned up at him; “Wait - that’s it? What the fuck was-”

“Wait for it...” Strange hummed under his breath.

“W-wait, Stephen!” They both turned. Christine was biting her lip. “Can I give you my new number? Just in case you ever wanted a hand with Alice, or something.”

Strange strolled forwards casually and exchanged numbers with the woman. Alley watched with a faint sense of awe. _Okay, that was pretty impressive_.

Strange headed – no, swaggered – back towards her, a smug smirk growing across his face as a blushing Christine disappeared down the aisle. “And that, Shortcake, is how you do it.”

Alley refused to give him the satisfaction. “I can’t believe you just _used_ me to get your ex’s number! I am not some puppy you can walk to get pretty girls to stop and coo!”

Strange shrugged. “Are you paying rent?” Alley gaped at him, more amused than angry. “And how’d you know-”

“If you had drooled anymore, we’d have drowned. So uncool, Romeo.” Alley reached over and snatched the pop tarts off the shelf. “ _This_ is payment for getting her number for you. If you want me to chat up your parenting skills, I’ll be expecting a little more than pop-tarts.”

Strange patted her on the head again, looking almost proud. “I knew we’d come to an agreement.”

* * *

“Try again.”

Alley scowled at the wizard sitting across from her. “It’s not going to happen! The last time it happened-” she shut her mouth, unwilling to return down that particular memory lane. Strange just watched her passively, crossing his arms across his chest. “Fine! Whatever!”

Alley shut her eyes, and clenched her fists and tried to _call_ to the Aegis. _Such bullshit…meditation isn’t going to awaken Bastet’s spirit or whatever-_

“Focus.”

“Don’t read my mind, dick.” She snapped at him.

Strange spluttered “Wh- I can’t do that.”

“Oh.” Alley shrugged to herself. _Focus._ _Focus._

It happened slowly; a dim realisation that she could _feel_ it, warm and centred and heavy around her neck.

**_Alice-_ **

Alley recoiled, eyes flying open, and she toppled entirely off her stool, still landing neatly on the floor despite the chaotic action. Strange jumped at her sudden movement. “What? What happened?” he demanded immediately, as she clambered back up onto the kitchen stool.

Ignoring the impatient wizard opposite her, she closed her eyes again.

_Mom?_

She felt stupid. Her mom was- she was-

**_Alice!_ **

There was joy there, a warmth she knew was instinctively feminine.

_How- Is this-?_

**_I’ve been waiting a long time for you, Alice._ **

And then she realised; it wasn’t _her_ mother, but it sounded like her, _felt_ like her. It made her sick enough to recoil again.

_Stay out of my head._

“I can’t do it anymore.” Alley met Strange’s eyes resolutely. She wasn’t sure what was on her face, but whatever it was gave her reprieve. He nodded once and she slid from the kitchen stool, making a break for the door.

She made it to the other side of the Institute before she recognised she was running away. It made her feel stupid. She was starting to understand she couldn’t exactly run away from… _it._

Alley sighed to herself, and eyed the dull glint of gold in the reflection of herself in the murky glass of a cabinet. If it was as simple as just taking it off-

When she reached for the necklace, it _disappeared._ For a moment she did panic, before she felt a new weight from her ear lobes. _Okay – that was new._ Gingerly she touched the new earrings that had formed, making out the familiar raised head of the lioness in the jewellery. As soon as the thought of taking them out fully formed, the Aegis disappeared again, reforming as an intimidatingly thick gold wrist cuff. Alley grunted in frustration and dropped her hand. _Fine!_ It was looking like she was stuck with ugly jewellery for life.

The stairs that led down into the cellar were old, but they didn’t creak.

The closer she got to the bottom, the more immense the dark seemed to be. The first time she’d accidentally stumbled into the cellar, she’d been terrified by it – and by the strange shape it took. Now, the swirling chill beyond the last step was familiar.

From the shadows, it came whispering and demure. “ _Helllloooo, Alice…”_

Alley flung herself down on the bottom step, and dangled her feet in the void beyond. To her amusement, the tickling cool of the Thing in the Cellar immediately robbed her of her sneakers, and she watched the white shoes go skittering into the dark, immediately swallowed by the immensity of the Thing. “Hey, Mister.” Alley greeted her friend with her usual cordiality.

The darkness flexed and congealed, and in between blinks, a face had formed at the apex of the blackness filling the cellar. It was a simple face; white and plain, with round eyes and a curved mouth that was more downturned than anything else, but it was a face she knew. Mister Misery had nearly swallowed her the first time that they had met, but Alley liked to think they were good friends now.

“ _You are holding quite a bit more distressssss than usual_.” The Thing wasn’t very good at social interaction. Alley was working on it.

She shrugged, and fished around in her pocket. “Strange has got me meditating on the Aegis.” The Thing grew instantly agitated at the wizard’s name. “Relax, Mister.” She said tiredly, pulling out a poptart still in its wrapping. It felt crumbled, and when she opened it, a few smaller chunks went spilling over her knees. The Thing lapped it up greedily.

“ _You could give it to meeee…”_ Mister suggested coyly, frothing up the bottom step in a way that belied its eagerness. “ _I’d take care offffffff it. You needn’t fret about it anymore….”_ The black slit of its mouth curled up in a hopeful smile, and thin tendrils of shadow caressed the exposed skin of her ankles with the tickle of feathers.

“For some reason, I don’t think that’d be a good idea.” Alley said with a grin, and shook some more Poptart into the dark. The Thing hummed and grumbled with equal parts dejection and satisfaction as it absorbed the sweet treat and her disappointing words. Alley wasn’t entirely sure _what_ the Thing was, just that – much like the other Magik she encountered – she seemed mostly immune to whatever it did. She’d never seen anyone but Strange down here, and the Thing had a deep resentment for the man, and indeed _all_ sorcerers. Giving it such a powerful artifact – as if she could even get it off her body – didn’t seem very wise.

“Do you have a mom?”

Alley didn’t know why she had asked, nor why it had come from her with such vulnerability. She swallowed against the sudden tightness of her throat, and stared into the impenetrable darkness of the Thing stretching past her sight.

The Thing swirled and hissed and thought aloud in whispers she couldn’t understand. “ _I don’t have anything, Alice, jussssssst you…I am alone and lonely…”_ it sounded the same dejected it always did, but Alley felt its words like a knife wound.

“I hate being alone.” She admitted. The darkness rose and swelled around her, until she couldn’t see her own hands in front of her, the Thing swallowing her enough she could feel it. Mister Misery didn’t have hands, but she thought she understood what it was trying to do. Unbidden, she sniffled into the embracing dark. The Thing lapped at her tears as greedily as it did the Poptart, the sensation like a cold wind drying the tears on her skin.

“ _You are not alone… not anymore, little Alice…”_

Alley wished she could believe the Thing.

* * *

Alley was aware of sweat beading and rolling down her temples, but didn’t dare break her focus to wipe it away. Her hands didn’t shake anymore – some weird byproduct of the Aegis – but she still had to struggle to stay gentle. The bird bones were fragile, and if she broke them she’d have to start all over again. Delicately, she tied the thin thread into a knot around the bundle of bones and sealed it with a drop of beeswax.

“That looks good.” Wong squinted at her work, ready to find fault. Alley sat back, nervous despite herself, as Wong looked over her charm preparation with a discerning eye. “Much better.”

“Yeah?” Alley bounced slightly on the uncomfortable wood of the chair.

Wong gave her a brief but approving look. “You might actually channel Magik this time.” Alley grinned, wiggling in spot. Wong huffed, and waved his hand. “Tell me; which non-magical herb will best focus your intention?”

Alley may not have been so great with the actual _casting_ , but she was a damn good hand at the theory. It was easy for her to memorise and recall any and all of the great slabs of text that Wong and Strange had her consuming daily. “Mint; for cooling and sharpening properties. Specifically spearmint, mentha spicata.”

“Good.” Wong nodded once. “You may begin.”

Casting with actual ingredients was baby-witch stuff. Potions and charms and all the bubble-bubble-toil-and-trouble things one could find in witchy pop-culture were considered pretty low tier magik. Taking and focussing energies without actual conduits was where the power and ability was. Strange and Wong didn’t need a whole set up to summon a single object, but Alley was stuck on simple white magik for now.

Obediently, she went through the motions and incantation, feeling the energy intent as if from a distance. _She…couldn’t…quite…grasp…it-_

Alley looked up and around, making sure Wong’s back was turned before she raised her thumb to her mouth. She pressed the pad of her thumb into the sharpness of her canine, breaking the skin and causing a bead of blood to well up on the tip of her finger. Careful not to let it drip on anything but the careful charm she’d assembled, Alley dribbled her blood right onto the bird bones. With a distinct scorching feeling, the magik sharpened and focussed in flux.

Wong whirled, just in time to watch her pluck the carton of milk from thin air. He glared at her, clearly aware of the magikal surge, but unable to pin down exactly what she had done. Alley smiled at him innocently, lifting the carton to her mouth and drinking directly from it. Blood had power, power she wasn’t supposed to know about – or use. It was a medium that couldn’t be directed; and so to use it so casually was to invite disaster. Strange had been very clear the first time he’d caught her trying to light the lamp in her room after night had fallen. She could have accidentally lit up the neighbourhood, could have sent them all up in flames; could have had anything happen.

“Have you finished your homework?” As if she had summoned him with her thoughts – and perhaps she had, Alley wasn’t entirely sure how Magik worked – Strange appeared behind her, stepping through the tall mirror mounted on the wall across from her. The small library was the only room with one of the travelling mirrors, and Alley thought it was sort of sweet that Strange seemed to use it so much, but only when Wong was in.

“She’s been working on her charms.” Wong answered for her, nodding briefly at the pile of very real and very _hard_ schoolwork she’d already finished. “You’ll have to grade her test.”

“Sixth grade math not taught at the Taj?” Strange quipped, smiling blithely at Wong as the other man scowled at him. “How’d you go, Alley?”

Alley reclined as much as she could in the rigid chair. “Killed it, as usual.” She wasn’t actually sure how well she’d done. Math was a truly elusive and confusing subject – and that was coming from the girl literally studying The Powers That Be.

Strange huffed a laugh, and sat down opposite her, tugging her work towards himself. His Cloak wiggled out from around his shoulders, and began zooming in tight circles around the ceiling. Alley watched it, waiting for the moment when-

It darted towards her, rocketing at her playfully. Alley was already in motion, and jumped at it, colliding with the large swathe of red velvet with a dull _flump_ sound. They went thudding to the ground in a confusing tangle of limbs and fabric, Alley trying her very best to subdue the wild flailing fabric, whilst the Cloak attempted to enclose her within itself. As they wrestled on the floor, Wong stepped over them, setting a steaming cup of tea next to Strange.

It was familiar and…nice.

When the alarm rang from the portal room, Alley was caught between resignation and anger. For while she wished she could be in the small pocket of peace for a little longer, she was also unsurprised at this point. She seemed destined for disruption and destruction.

“Go to your room, Alice.” Strange stood in one fluid movement, and Alley was left dizzy by how quickly the Cloak ripped itself from around her frame.

“No.” She scrambled to her feet. “I can help. Let me help.” Strange and Wong looked at her, and then to each other, exchanging the kind of silent conversation that only made her blood boil. She stomped her foot once, like a child, the floorboard cracking beneath the simple blow. “Don’t leave me behind.” _Alone._

Strange’s face went through a series of emotions, each passing too quickly for her to properly read them. “Fine.” He snapped finally, and thrust both his palms at her. A clear energy swept over her with the feeling of being doused in cold water, and she shivered, opening her mouth to complain.

She found, with a considerable amount of distress, that she could not. Suddenly, the room seemed to be getting very big, and she seemed to be falling- shrinking- _changing-_

Alley landed on four paws, looked up and gave Strange the most baleful meow she could manage from her new mouth. _A cat? Seriously?_ She meowed again, bristling all over. _And not even a talking cat! _Strange crouched before her, holding his palms out in an obviously calming gesture. “Now, just relax. I promise it’s not permanent. Just keep out of the way-” Alley thrust herself against his palms, rubbing the length of her body against his hands. _She was fine, dammit, she’d been in weirder situations before_. He chuckled, and stroked her from her head to tail. Alley couldn’t believe how _nice_ it felt. No wonder housecats just laid around begging for food and pets all day. Maybe she should get into this as a-

_Whoa nelly._

Strange scooped her up with a firm hand under her body, cradling her to himself like a human child. _This isn’t very-_ Alley wriggled in his grip, uncomfortable with her belly exposed and her four paws to the wind. She dug her claws into his sleeve and dragged herself up to balance on his shoulder. Strange offered her a quick scratch behind the ear before he opened a portal and they stepped through.

The Portal room was filled with Sorcerers. There were Wizards of all shapes and sizes, dressed in a multitude of colour and fabric. Most notably, however, were the collection of wizards in green, each looking worse for wear, some with blood staining the moss green of their robes.

“What happened?” Alley could hear Wong cut through the confusion.

“The alarm was raised-!”

“An attack on the Russian Sanctum-”

“We came here-”

“Too late, everything is gone-”

“We need to block the portal-”

Strange clapped his hands once, the sound seeming to obliterate every other distraction. Alley could feel the power emanating from him like heat from a bonfire. “The able-bodied must follow Wong back to the Russkiy Sanctum and finish the fight. I will remain here with the wounded, and if the attack can’t be stopped I will sever the link between the Sanctums.” His voice boomed and rolled unnaturally loud and clear. Immediately, the assembled Sorcerers hastened to do his bidding. Alley had forgotten that Strange was _the_ Sorcerer Supreme, but now, it seemed to be a mantel as natural for him to shoulder as his cloak. It was making the hair – fur – rise across her body.

Wong disappeared through the smouldering portal to the Russian Sanctum, and Alley watched him go with a tight ball of nerves in her gut she was reluctant to recognise. _She hadn’t even said goodbye…_

“Alley-Cat,” Strange’s low whisper drew her attention, and she turned her head to meet his eyes. He looked apologetic. “I know I said to stay out of the way, but I might need your help.”

 _Anything._ Alley listened to the high keening of a woman missing a chunk of her arm, and let out a low whimper. _Anything at all._ “I need you to find Rehua’s Star of Healing.” Alley leapt from her spot on his shoulder, and went skittering from the room. A few sorcerers let out faint exclamations as she ran past, but none dared to stop her or distract her.

Rehua’s Star.

Alley didn’t know what it was, didn’t know what it did, what it looked like, but she knew instinctively – she _would_ find it. she followed the now-familiar drumbeat call of the Artifacts, wriggling through the thin gap of the door, and leaping atop the stair banister to get a better look at the room. _Rehua’s Star, Star, Star, Star…_

She scanned the room, eyes alighting on the small wooden ten-pointed star sitting innocuously in a glass case across the room. _That was it._ She was sure of it. The Maori indigenous carvings around the circular centre were unreadable to her, but she still _knew_.

Deprived of opposable thumbs, Alley did the first thing she could think of. Raising up on her back paws, she began to push at the case. Expecting a struggle, she was surprised when the cabinet fell right over, glass skittering in a thousand directions. _Ah, right. She’d forgotten about that new and pesky superstrength._ The weight of the Aegis around her furry throat seemed to suddenly double in brief reproach. _She better not be wearing a collar…_ the weight disappeared almost guiltily at her pointed thought, and if cats could roll their eyes, Alley would have.

She opened her mouth and bit into the soft wood of the Star, feeling a little guilty at how easily her fangs sank into the wood. _Oops – sorry Rehua, if you’re watching or around or whatever…_

On all fours, she was faster, and she made it back into the portal room in record time, jaw and mouth aching a little at the points digging into the inside of her cheeks. The injured had been maneuvered to the outskirts of the room, and most of chaos was subdued, the majority of the Sorcerers that had travelled to the Sanctum gone either to face the enemy with Wong, or back to their own Sanctums to build up their defences.

Alley wanted to know _why._ Why the attack, why the wanton destruction, why had the Russkiy been hit at all?

Strange was bent over a bald man covered in ash, with several vicious cuts on the exposed skin of his arms. A pale pink light was emanating from his palms, and as she watched, the blood began to clot and dry-up, Strange’s brow knitted in concentration. She dropped the Star beside him, and he cast her a cursory look. “Good, Alice.” She tried not to rankle at the use of her name – which he only ever seemed to use when he was distracted. “I need you to get disinfectant now. I can heal the wounds, but it’ll be pointless if they get infected.”

She was off again.

* * *

It was late when they were able to rest.

Strange straightened with a wince from where he had been hovering over a sleeping Wong’s broken arm. _That should be everyone._ Alley dropped from her perch on the bedside table, and wound herself through and around Strange’s legs. He looked tired, and it was making her uncomfortable.

“Oh, dear. I’m sorry, Alley.” She looked up to meet his concerned eyes. “Just a moment.” He thrust his hands at her again, but this time the clear energy rippled uncertainly, and it was as she’d been misted in ice water rather than doused. She remained a cat, though she felt her skin shudder and momentarily shift. Strange swallowed and closed his eyes. This time the magik flowed as powerfully and clearly as usual, and Alley began to-

She let out a shuddering gasp when her breath returned, splayed out in a heap at Strange’s feet. “Christ…” She croaked, wincing at the rough sound to her voice. Strange crouched beside her, and with a distinct grunt of effort, hauled her to her feet. It was her turn to steady the wizard, careful not to grab him too tightly as he swayed, looking pale. “Whoa, old man, don’t die on me.” She told him lightly.

“Ha, ha, ha…” Strange said sarcastically, and tottered uncertainly over to the door. Alley pounced on him again, and lifted his hand with his sling ring. Perhaps it was the late hour and the exhaustion of the day that let his magik flow so strongly, but whatever it was, Alley found herself _channelling_ the magik as she rotated his hand for him. _Bedroom._ She thought distinctly, and was amazed when Strange’s bed appeared before them. “Huh.” Strange’s exclamation told her he was equally as surprised by the casual display of ability. Alley gave him a shove, and he went flying atop his covers.

“Whoops! Sorry!” She apologised hurriedly as the portal closed. Strange didn’t respond; but she caught the edge of a snore before the portal shut.

“He’ll be alright.”

Alley whirled at the sound of Wong’s distinct rumble. The injured man was blinking at her sleepily but was mercifully conscious. “Wong!” She couldn’t help but cry out joyfully, hurrying back across the room to clamber back up on the chair beside his bed. “You’re awake!”

“It takes more than that to keep me down, kid.” Wong cast a look at his broken arm. “That’s going to be annoying though.”

“What happened, Wong?” Alley leant closer to him, drinking in his familiar features greedily.

Wong frowned, eyes unfocussing slightly. “I’m still not quite sure. They weren’t from Earth – and they clearly hadn’t been here in a while. They were looking for the-” he cut himself off, looking at her sharply.

Alley rolled her eyes. “You can tell me, Wong.”

Wong pursed his lips. “The less people that know about it, the better. But I don’t suppose it’ll hurt if you know.” He sighed. “The Russkiy Sanctum used to house the Eye of Agamotto, many years ago. It was moved to the New York Sanctum when the Ancient One took up permanent residence here.”

“The Amulet…” Alley could picture the intricate artifact clearly. Unlike other Magikal Artifacts that called to her, there had been something that had always repelled her from the glowing green eye. “The one that glows all the time, right?”

Wong blinked. “It glows for you? Usually the power is only visible when it’s activated by the user.”

Alley shrugged. “It always glows. It’s not a _nice_ glow.” Wong stared at her for another long beat, with the frustrated expression Alley had learnt to associate with all the times she displayed contrary or unusual behaviour Wong couldn’t explain. She grinned. “Don’t worry, I don’t have the urge to steal it.”

Wong snorted. “Well, thank the Mystics for that. The world is probably a whole lot safer without _you_ running around with an Infinity Stone.”

“Infinity Stone?”

Wong looked guilty again. “That’s another conversation for another day. You should get some rest, Alice. You must be tired.” Alley watched him fake-yawn with narrowed eyes. “I know I am!” Wong stretched exaggeratedly, and Alley rolled her eyes again.

“Okay, relax! I’m going, I’m going!” She backed away with her hands held aloft, ignoring Wong’s grin. “You are a _terrible_ actor, by the way.”

“Go to sleep, Alley-Cat!”

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! This is a sort of teaser trailer for the next stage in my extended MCU... This work will introduce another original character, so only read on if you're into that sort of thing. I hope you all enjoy this small piece of a universe we know and love.


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